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POETICAL WORKS 



ROBERT BURNS 



WITB A GLOSSARY AND LIFE OF THE AUTHOR 



BY JAMES OURRTE, M. D. 



INCLUDING ADDITIONAL POEMS EXTRACTE1J 

FBOM THE LATE EDITION EDITED BY 

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 



» 



CHICAGO 

GEO. M. HILL COMPANY 
166-174 S. Clinton Street 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 



THE AUTHOR. 



Robbkt Btraxs was born on the 29th day of J ana* 
ry, 1759j in a small house about two miles from lh« 
town of Ayr in Scotland. The family name, whiei, 
the poet modernized into Burns } was originally Burnet 
or Burness. His father, William, appears to ha-ts 
been early mured to poverty and hardships, whir h he 
bore with pious resignation, and endeavored to allev; 
ate by industry and economy. After various attempt* 
to gam a livelihood, he took a lease of seven acres ot 
land, with a view of commencing nurseryman and pub 
lie gardener; and having built a house upon it with hi» 
own hands, (an instance of patient ingenuity by no 
means uncommon among his countrymen in humble 
life,) he married, December, 1757, Agnes Brown* 
The first fruit of his marriage was Robert, the sub 
ject of the present sketch. 

In his sixth year, Robert was sent to school, whert 
he made considerable proficiency in reading and writ 
ing, and where he discovered an inclination for t>ook> 
not very common at so early an age. About the ag« 
of thirteen or fourteen, he was sent to the parish schoo 
of Dalrymple, where he increased his aquaintanct 
with English Grammar, and gained some knowledgt 
of the French. Latin- was also recommended to him 
but hf. did not make any great progress in it. 

The far greater part of his time, however, was era 
ployed on his father's farm, which, in spite of much in 
Austry , became so unproductive as to involve the fans 

* This excellent woman is still living in the family of her ion Gilbert 
(alar, 1813.) 



IV BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

ily in great distress. His father having taken anothei 
'"anrij the speculation was yet more fatal, and involv- 
ed his affairs in complete ruin. He died. February 
13, 17^4. leaving behind him the character of a good 
and wise man. and an affectionate father, who, undei 
all his misfortunes, struggled to procure his children 
an excellent education; and endeavored, both by pre- 
cept and example to form their minds to religion and 
virtue. 

It was between the fifteenth and sixteenth year of 
hi* age. that Robert first -committed the sin of rhyme." 
Having formed a boyish affection for a female who 
was Ins companion in the toils of the field, he compos- 
ed a song, which, however extraordinary from one at 
his age. and in his circumstances, is far inferior to any 
of his subsequent performances. He was at this time 
" an ungainly, awkward boy," unacquainted with the 
world, but who occasionally had picked up some no- 
tions of history, literature, and criticism, from the few 
books within his reach. These he informs us. were 
Salmon's and Guthrie's Geographical Grammars, the 
Spectator, Pope's Works, some plays of Shakspeare, 
Tull and Dickson on Agriculture, the Pantheon, 
Locke's Essay on the Human Understanding, Stack- 
house's History of the Bible, Justice's British Garden- 
er's Directory. Boyle's Lectures, Allan Ramsay's 
Works, Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin, 
a Select Collection of English Songs, and Hervey's 
Meditations. Of this motley assemblage, it may read- 
ily be supposed, that some would be studied, and some 
read superficially. There is reason to think, however, 
that he perused the works of the poets with such at- 
tention, as, assisted by his naturally vigorous capaci- 
ty, soon directed hisiaste, and enabled him to discrim- 
inate tenderness and sublimity from affectation and 
bombast. 

It appears that from the seventeenth to the twenty- 
fourth year of Robert's age, he made no considerable 
literary improvement. His accessions of knowledge, 
or opportunities of reading, could not be frequent, 
but no external circumstances, could prevent the 
.nnate peculiarities of his character from displaying 
themselves He was distinguished by a vigorous 



OF THE AUTHOR. ▼ 

understanding, and an umameable spirit. His resent- 
ments were quick, and, although not durable, express- 
ed with a volubility of indignation which could not 
but silence and overwhelm his humble and illiterate 
associates ; while the occasional effusions of his muse 
on temporary subjects, which were handed about iu 
manuscript, raised him to a local superiority that 
seemed the earnest of a more extended fame. His 
first motive to compose verses, as has been already no- 
ticed, was his early and warm attachment to the fair 
sex. His favorites were in the humblest walks of 
life; but during his passion, he elevated tiiem to Lau- 
ras and Saccnarissas. His attachments, however, 
were of the purer kind, and his constant theme the 
happiness of the married state; to obtain a suitable 
provision for which, he engaged in partnership with 
a flax -dresser, hoping, probably, to attain by degrees 
the rank of a manufacturer. But this speculation was 
attended with very little success, and was finally end- 
ed by an accidental fire. 

On his father's death he took a farm in conjunction 
with his brother, with the honorable view of providing 
for their large and orphan family. But here, too, he 
was doomed to be unfortunate, although, in his broth- 
er Gilbert, he had a coadjutor of excellent sense, a 
man of uncommon powers both of thought and ex- 
pression. 

During his residence on this farm he formed a con- 
nexion with a young woman, the consequences of 
which could not be long" concealed. In this dilemma, 
the imprudent couple agreed to make a legal acknowl- 
edgment of a private marriage, and projected that she 
should remain with her father, while he was to go to 
Jamaica - to push his fortune." This proceeding, 
however romantic it may appear, would have rescued 
the lady's character, according to the laws of Scotland, 
but it did not satisfy her father, who insisted on hav- 
ing all the written documents respecting their marriage 
canceled, and by this unfeeling measure, he intended 
that it should be rendered void. Divorced now from 
all he held dear in the world, he had no resource but 
m his projected voyage to Jama.ca, which was pre- 
vented by one of those circumstances that in common 



Tl BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

cases, might pass without observation, but which 
eventually laid the foundation of his future fame. 
For once, his poverty stood his friend. Had he been 
provided with money to pay for his passage to Jamaica, 
he might have set sail, and been forgotten. But he 
was destitute of every necessary for the voyage, and 
was therefore advised to raise a sum of money by 
publishing his poems in the way of subscription. 
They were accordingly printed at Kilmarnock, in the 
year 1786, in a small volume, which was encouraged 
by subscriptions for about 350 copies. 

It is hardly possible to express with what eager ad 
miration these poems were everywhere received 
Old and young, high and low, learned and ignorant 
all were alike delighted. Such transports would nat- 
urally find their way into the bosom of the autho, 
especially when he found that, instead of the necessi 
ty of flying from his native land, he was now encour- 
aged to go to Edinburgh and superintend the publica- 
tion of a second edition. 

In the metropolis, he was soon .ntroduced into the 
company and received the homage of men of litera- 
ture, rank, and taste ; and his appearance and behav- 
for at this time, as they exceeded all expectation, 
heightened and kept up the curiosity which his works 
had excited. He became the object of universal 
admiration, and feasted, and flattered, as if it had 
been impossible to reward his merit too highly. But 
what contributed principally to extend his fame into 
the sister kingdom, was his fortunate introduction to 
Mr. Mackenzie, who, in the 97th paper of the 1. onager, 
recommended his poems by judicious specimens, and 
generous and elegant criticism. From this time, 
whether present or absent, Burns and his genius 
were the objects which engrossed all attention and 
all conversation. 

«: cannot be surprising if this new scene of life 
produced effects on Burns which were the source of 
much of the unhappiness of his future life: tor while 
he was admitted to the company of men of taste, and 
rirtue, he was also seduced, by pressing invitation* 
into the society of those whose habits are too social 



Or THE AUTHOR. Vll 

and inconsiderate. It is to be regretted that he had 
little resolution to withstand those attentions which 
flattered his merit, and appeared to be the just respect 
due to a degree of superiority, of which he could not 
avoid being conscious. Among his superiors in rank 
and merit, his behavior was in general decorous and 
unassuming; but among his more equal or inferior 
associates, he wa<t himself the source of the mirth of 
the evening, and repaid the attention and submission 
of his hearers by sallies of wit, which, from one of 
his birth and education, had all the fascination of won- 
der His introduction, about the same time, into con- 
vivial clubs of higher rank, was an injudicious mark 
of respect to one who was destined to return to the 
plow, and to the simple and frugal enjoyments of a 
peasant's life. 

During his residence at Edinburgh, his finances 
were considerably improved by the new edition of his 
poems; and this enabled him to visit several other 
parts of his native country. He left Edinburgh, May 
6, 1787, and in the course of his journey was hos- 
pitab.y received at the houses of many gentlemen 
of worth and .earning. He afterwards traveled into 
England as far as Carlisle In the beginning of June 
he arrived in Ayrshire, after an absence of six months, 
during which he had experienced a change of fortune, 
to which the hopes of few men ft his situation could 
have aspired. His companion in some of these lours 
was a Mr. Nicol, a man who was ende.a-ed to Burns 
not only by the warmth of his friendship, but by a 
certain congeniality of sentiment ana agreement in 
habits. This sympathy, in some instances, made our 
poet capriciously fond of companions, who. .n the 
eyes of men of more regular conduct, were insuffer- 
able. 

During the greater part of the winter of 1787-8, Burns 
again resided in Edinburgh, and entered with peculiar 
relish into its gayeties. But as the singularities of his 
manner displayed themselves more openly, and as the 
novelty of his manner wore off, he became less an 
object of general attention. He lingered long in this 
place, in hopes that some situation would have been 
offered which might place him in indepen'ence: but 



V1I1 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

as it did not seem probable that anything of that kind 
would occur soon, he began seriously to reflect thai 
tours of pleasure and praise would not provide for the 
wains of a family. Influenced by these considerations 
he quilted Edinburgh in the month of February, 1788. 
Finding himself master of nearly £500, from the sale 
of his poems, he took the farm of Ellislaad, near Dum- 
fries, and stocked it with part of this money, besides 
generously advancing £200 to his brother Gilbert, who 
was struggling with difficulties. He was now legally 
united to Mrs. Burns, who joined him with their child- 
ren about the end of this year. 

Quitting now speculation for more active pursuits, 
he rebuilt the dwelling-house on his farm ; and during 
his engagement in this object, and while the regula- 
tions of the farm had the charm of novelty, he passed 
his time in more tranquillity than he had lately expe- 
rienced. But, unfortunately, his old habits were rath- 
er interrupted than broken. He was again invited 
into social parties, with the additional recommenda- 
tion of a man who had seen the world, and lived with 
the great; and again partook of those irregularities for 
which men of warm imaginations, and conversational 
talents, find too many apologies. But a circumstance 
now occurred which threw many obstacles in his way 
as a fanner 

Burns very fondly cherished those notions of inde- 
pendence, which are dear to til"! young and ingenuous. 
But he had not matured these by reflection ; and he 
was now to learn, that a little knowledge of the world 
will overturn many such airy fabrics. If we may 
form any judgment, however, from his Gorresnondence, 
his expectations were not very extravagan. since he 
expected only that some of his illustrious patrons 
would have placed him, on whom they bestowed the 
honors of genius, in a situation where his exertions 
might have been uninterrupted by the fatigues of 
labor, and the calls of want. Disappointed in this, 
he now formed a design of applying for the office 
of exciseman, as a kind of resource in case his ex- 
pectations from the farm should be baffled. By the 
interest of one of his friends, this object was accom- 
plished ; and after the usual forms were gone through, 



OF THtt AUTHOR. IX 

he was appointed exciseman, or, ax it is vulgarly cal- 
led, ganger of the district in which he lived. 

"His farm was now abandoned to his servants, 
while he betook himself to the duties of his new ap- 
pointment. He might still, indeed, be seen in the 
spring, directing his plow, a labor in which he excel- 
led, or striding, with measured steps, along his turned- 
up furrows, and scattering the grain in the earth. 
But his farm no longer occupied the principal part of 
his care or his thoughts. Mounted on horseback, he 
was found pursuing the defaulters of the revenue, 
among the hills and vales of Nithsdale." 

About this time, (1792,) he was solicited to give he 
aid to Mr. Thomson's Collection of Scottish Song;* 
He wrote, with attention and without delay, for thus 
work, all the songs which appear in this volume ; to 
which we have added those he contributed to John- 
sou's Musical Museum. 

Burns also found leisure to form a society for pur- 
chasing and circulating books among the farmers of 
the neighborhood; but these however praiseworthy 
employments, still interrupted the attention he ought to 
nave bestowed on his farm, which became ss unpro- 
ductive that he found it convenient to resign it, and. 
disposing of his stock and crop, removed to a small 
house which he had taken in Dumfries, a short time 
previous to his lyric engagement with Mr. Thomson. 
He had now received from the Board of Excise, an 
appointment to a new district, the emoluments of 
which amounted to about seventy pounds sterling 
ptr annum 

While at Dumfries, his temptations to irregularity, 
recurred so frequently as nearly to overpower his res- 
olutions, and which he appears to have formed with a 
perfect knowledge of what is right and prudent. Dur- 
ing his quiet moments, however, he was enlarging his 
fame by those admirable compositions he sent to Mr. 
Thomson : and his temporary sallies and flashes of 
imagination, in the merriment of the social table, still 
bespoke a genius of wonderful strength and captiva- 
tions. It has been said, indeed, that extraordinary 
B 



X BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

as his poems are, they afford but inadequate proof 
of the powers of their author, or ot that acuteness 
of observation, and expression, he displayed on com- 
mon topics in conversation. In the society of per- 
sons of taste, he could refrain from those indul- 
gences, which, among his more constant companions, 
probably formed his chief recommendation. 

The emoluments of his office, which now compo- 
sed his whole fortune, soon appeared insufficient for 
the maintenance of his family. He did not, indeed, 
from the first, expect that they could; but he had 
hopes of promotion, and would probably have at- 
tained it, if he had not forfeited the favor of the 
Board of Excise, by some conversations on the 
state of public affairs, which were deemed highly 
improper, and were probably reported to the Board 
in a way not calculated to lessen their effect. That 
he should have been deceived by the affairs in 
France during the early periods of the revolution, is 
not surprising ; he only caught a portion of an en- 
thusiasm which was then very general ; but that he 
should have raised his imagination to a warmth be- 
yond his fellows, will appear very singular, when 
we consider that he had hitherto distinguished him- 
self as a Jacobite, an adherent to the house of Stew- 
art. Yet he had uttered opinions which were thought 
dangerous ; and information being given to the 
Board, an inquiry was instituted into his conduct, 
the result of which, although rather favorable, was 
not so much so as to reinstate him in the good opinion 
of the commissioners. Interest was necessary to 
enable him to retain his office ; and he was informed 
that his promotion was deferred, and must depend on 
his future behavior. 

He is said to have defended himself on this occa 
sion. in a letter addressed to one of the Board, with 
much spirit and skill. He wrote another letter to a 
gentleman, who, hearing that he had been dismissed 
from his situation, proposed a subscription for him 
In this last, he gives an account of the whole trans 
action, and endeavors to vindicate iis loyalty; he 
also contends for an independence of spirit, which 
he certainly possessed, but which yet appears to hnv* 



OF RHE AUTHOR. XI 

partaken of that extravagance of sentiment which 
10 niter to point a stanza than to conduct a life. 

A passage in this letter is too characteristic to be 
omitted.— •' Often," says our poet, 4 - in blasting an- 
ticipation have I listened to some future hackney 
■cribbler, with heavy malice of savage stupidity, ex- 
nltingly asserting that Burns, notwithstanding the 
fanfaronade of independence to be found in his 
works, and afier having been held up to public view, 
and to public estimation, as a man of some genius, 
yet quite dest lute of resources within himself to 
•upport his borrowed dignity, dwindled into a pal- 
try exciseman; and slunk out the rest of his insig- 
nificant existence, m the meanest of pursuits, and 
among the lowest of mankind." 

This passage has no doubt often been read with 
sympathy. That Burns should have embraced the 
only opportunity in his power to provide for his fam- 
ily, can be no topic of censure or ridicule, and how- 
ever incompatible with the cultivation of genius the 
business of an exciseman may be, there is nothing 
of moral turpitude or disgrace attached to it. It was 
not his choice, it was the only help within his reach, 
and he laid hold of it. But that he should not have 
found a patron generous or wise enough to place 
him in a situation at least free from allurements to 
'' the sin that so easily beset him," is a circumstance 
on which the admirers of Burns have found it pain- 
ful to dwell. 

Mr. Mackenzie, in the 97th number of the Loun- 
ger, after mentioning the poet's design of going to 
the West Indies, concludes that paper in words to 
which sufficient attention appears not to have been 
paid : " I trust means may be found to prevent this 
resolution from taking place ; and that I do my coun- 
try no more than justice, when I suppose her ready 
to'stretch out the hand to cherish and retain this na- 
tive poet, whose ' wood notjs wild ' possess so much 
excellence. To repair the wrongs of suffering or ne- 
glected merit : to call forth genius from the obscuri- 
ty in which it had pined indignant, and place it where 
it might profit or delight the w6rld .'—these are exear- 



ill BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

tions which give to wealth an enviable superiority, 
to greatness and to patronage a laudable pride." 

Although Burns deprecated the reflections which 
might be made on his occupation of exciseman, it 
may be necessary to add. that from this humble step, 
he foresaw all the contingencies and gradations of 
promotion up to a rank on which it is not usual to 
look with contempt. In a letter dated 1794, he 
states that he is on the list of supervisors; that in 
two or three years he should be at the head of that 
list, and be appointed, as a matter of course ; but 
that then a friend might be of service in getting him 
into a part of the kingdom which he would like. A 
supervisor's income varies from about 1207. to 2001. 
a year : but the business is "an incessant drudgery, 
and would be nearly a complete bar to every species 
of literary pursuit." He proceeds, however, to ob- 
•erve, that the moment he is appointed supervisor 
he might be nominated on the Collector's list, "and 
this is always a business purely of political patron- 
age. A collectorship varies from much better than 
two hundred a year to near a thousand. Collectors 
also come forward by precedency on the list, and 
have, besides a handsome income, a life of complete 
leisure. A life of literary leisure with a decent com- 
petence, is the summit of my wishes." 

He was doomed, however, to continue in his 
present employment for the remainder of his days, 
which were not many. His constitution was now 
rapidly decaying; yet, his resolutions of amendment 
were but feeble. His temper became irritable and 
gloomy, and he was even insensible to the kind for- 
giveness and soothing attentions of his affectionate 
wife. In the month of June, 1796, he removed to 
Brow, about ten miles from Dumfries, to try the ef- 
fect of sea-bathing; a remedy that at first, he imag- 
ined, relieved the rheumatic pains in his limbs, with 
which he had been afflicted for some months : but 
this was immediately followed by a new attack of 
fever. When brought back to his house at Dumfries, 
on the 18th of July, he was no longer able to stand 
upright. The fever increased, attended with deliri- 



OF THE AUTHOR. Xlll 

am and debility, and on the 21st he expired, in the 
thirty-eighth year of of his age. 

He left a widow and four sons, for whom the in- 
habitants of Dumfries opened a subscription, which 
being extended to England, produced a considerable 
sum for their immediate necessities.* This has since 
been augmented by the profits of the edition of his 
works, printed in four volumes, Svo.; to which Dr. 
Currie, of Liverpool, prefixed a life, written wirt 
much elegance and taste. 

As to the person of our poet, lie is described as 
being nearly five feet ten inches in height, and of a 
form that indicated agiliiy as well as strength. Hia 
well raised forehead, shaded with black curling hair, 
expressed uncommon capacity. His eyes were large, 
dark, full of ardor aud'animaiion. His face was well- 
formed, and his countenance uncommonly Interest- 
ing. His conversation is universally allowed to 
have been uncommonly fascinating, and rieh in wit, 
humor, whim, and occasionally in serious and ap- 
posite reflection. This excellence, however proved 
a lasting misfortune to him: for while it procured 
him the friendship of men of character and taste, in 
whose company his humor was guarded and chaste, 
it had also allurements for the lowest of mankind, 
who know no difference between freedom and li- 
centiousness, and are never so completely gratified 
as when genius condescends to give a kind of sanc- 
tion to their grossness. l!e died poor, hut not ifl 
debt, and left behind him a name, tne fame of when 
will not soon be eclipsed. 

* Mrs. Burns continues to live in the house in which the poet Aitd. 
the eldest son, Robert, is at present in the Staiup office . the other twa 
tre officers in the East India Company's army ; William ts in Bengmi. 
and Janies In Madras, (May, *813,) Wallace, the second ion, * iaJ J 
great promise, died of a consumption. 



ON 

THE DEATH OF BURNS. 

BY MR. ROSCOE. 

Rear high thy bleak, majestic hills, 

Thy shelter'd valleys proudly spread, 
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red; 
But, ah! what poet now shall tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, 
Since he the sweetest bard is dead 

That ever breath'd the soothing strain f 

As green thy towering pines may grow, 

As clear thy streams may speed along; 
As bright thy summer suns may glow. 

And wake again thy feathery throng; 
But now, unheeded is the song, 

And dull and lifeless all around, 
Fur his wild harp lies all unstrung, 

And cold the hand that wak'd its sound. 

What tho' thy vigorous offspring rise, 

In arts and arms thy sons excel ; 
Tho' beauty in thy daughters' eyes, 

And health in every feature dwell ; 
Yet who shall now their praises tell 

In strains impassion'd, fond, and free, 
Since he no more the song shall swell 

To love, and liberty, and thee ! 

Willi step-dame eye and frown severe 
His hapless youth why didst thou view f 

XV 



XVI ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. 

For all thy joys to him were dear, 
And all his vows to thee were due : 

Nor greater bliss his bosom knew, 
In opening youth's delightful prime, 

Than when thy* favoring ear he drew 
To listen to his chanted rhyme. 

Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies 

To him were all with rapture fraught , 
He heard with joy the tempests rise 

That wak'd him to sublimer thought; 
And oft thy winding dells he sought, 

Where wild flowers pour'd their rath perfume 
And with sincere devotion brought 

To thee the summer's earliest bloom. 

But, ah ! no fond maternal smile 

His unprotected youth enjoy'd ; 
His limbs inur'd to early toil, 

His days with early hardships tried: 
And more to mark the gloomy void, 

And bid him feel his misery, 
Before his infant eyes would glide 

Day-dreams of immortality. 

Yet, not by cold neglect depress'd, 

With sinewy arm he turn'd the soil, 
Sunk with the evening sun to rest, 

And met at morn his earliest smile. 
Wak'd by his rustic pipe, meanwhile 

The powers of fancy came along. 
And soothed his lengthen'd hour of toil 

With native wit and sprightly song. 

Ah ! days of bliss, too swiftly fled, 

When vigorous liealth from labor springs, 

And bland contentment smooths the bed, 
And sleep his ready opiate brings ; 



ON THE DEATH OF BURN8. XVU 

And hovering round on airy wings 
Float the light forms of young desire, 

That of unutterable things 
The soft and shadowy hope inspire. 

N ow spells of mightier power prepare, 

Bid brighter phantoms round him dance: 
Let flattery spread her viewless snare, 

And fame attract his vagrant glance : 
Let sprightly pleasure too advance, 

Unveil'd her eyes, unclasp'd her zone, 
Till lost in love's delirious trance, 

He scorns the joys his youth has known. 

Let friendship pour her brightest blaze, 

Expanding all the bloom of soul ; 
And mirth concentre all her rays, 

And point them from the sparkling bowl 
And let the careless moments roll 

In social pleasures unconfin'd, 
And confidence that spurns control, 

Unlock the inmost springs of mind. 

And lead his steps those bowers among, 

Where elegance with splendor vies, 
Or science bids her favor' d throng 

To more refiVd sensations rise ; 
Beyond the peasant's humbler joys, 

And freed from each laborious strife, 
There let him learn the bliss to prize 

That waits the sons of polish' d life. 

Then whilst his throbbing veins beat high 

With every impulse of delight, 
Dash from his lips the cup of joy, 

And shroud the scene in shades of night ; 
And let despair, with wizard light, 

Disclose me yawning gulf below, 



XV111 ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. 

And pour incessant on his sight, 
Her spectred ills and shapes of wo : 

And show beneath a cheerless shed, 

With sorrowing heart and streaming eyee 
In silent grief where droops her head, 

The partner of his early joys ; 
And let his infant's tender cries 

His fond parental succor claim, 
And bid him hear in agonies 

A husband and a father's name. 

T Tis done — the powerful charm succeeds , 

His high reluctant spirit bends ; 
In bitterness of soul he bleeds, 

Nor longer with his fate contends. 
An idiot laugh the welkin rend:* 

As genius thus degraded lies ; 
Till pitying Heaven the veil extends 

That shrouds the Poet's ardent eyes. 

Rear high thy bleak, majestic hills, 

Thy shelter'd valleys proudly spread, 
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red 
But never more shall poet tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, 
Since he the sweetest bard is dead 

That ever breath' d the soothing strain. 



CONTENTS 



TXWM, 

llOGKAPHICAL SKETCH of the Author, ill 

On the Death of Burns, hy Mr Roscoe,- — xv 

Preface to the First Edition of Burns' Poem*, 

published at Kilmarnock, — xxxiii 

Dedication of the Second Edition of the Poems 
formerly printed, To the Noblemen and Gen- 
tlemen of the Caledonian Hunt, xxxvii 

POEMS, CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 

The Twa Dogs, a Tale, 1 

Scotch Drink, 8 

The Author's earnest Cry and Prayer to the 
Scotch Representatives in the House of Com- 
mons, 12 

Postcript, — - 17 

The Holy Fair, - - 18 

Death and Dr. Hornbook, — 27 

The Brigs of Ayr, a Poem inscribed to J. B , 

Esq. Ayr, 32 

The Ordination, — 41 

The Calf. To the Rev. Mr. , 45 

Address to the Deil, - 48 

The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie,— 50 

Poor Mailie's Elegy, 52 

To J. S****, - 54 

A Dream, -— - 59 

The Vision, 04 

Address to the Unco Guid, or the Rigidly Right- 
eous, — 72 

Tarn Samson's Elegy, --•» - 75 

The Epitaph, — 78 

Halloween, 78 

The Auld Farmer's New-Year Morning Saluta- 
tion to his Auld Mare Maggie, 98 

six 



XX CONTENTS. 

P4«f 

To a Mouse, on turning her up in her nest with 

the plow, November, 1785, «fcj 

A Winter Night, - - 93 

Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet, — — 98 

The Lament, occasioned by the Unfortunate is- 
sue of a Friend's Amour, 103 

Despondency, an Ode,— — - 10S 

Winter, a Dirge, - 108 

The Cotter's Saturday Night, ~ 109 

Man was made to Mourn, a Dirge, 114 

A prayer in the prospect of Death, 118 

Stanzas on the same occasion, - 119 

Verses left by the Author, in the room where he 
slept, having lain at the House of a Reverend 

Friend, - 120 

The First Psalm, 121 

A Prayer, under the pressure of violent Anguish, 121 

The first six verses of the Ninetieth Psalm, 122 

To a Mountain Daisy, on turning one down with 

the Plow, in April, 1786, 123 

To Ruin, - 125 

To Miss L , with Beattie's Poems as a New 

Year's Gift, Jan. 1, 17S7, 126 

Epistle to a young Friend, -- 126 

On a Scotch Bard, gone to the West Indies, 129 

To a Haggis, 131 

A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq., 133 

To a Louse, on seeing one on a Lady's Bonnet 

at Church, 137 

Address to Edinburgh, 138 

Epistle to J. Lapraik, an old Scottish Bard, 141 

To the Same. - 145 

To W. S*****n, Ochiltree, May, 1785, 148 

Postscript, 151 

Epistle to J. R**#***. enclosing some Poems, — 154 

John Barleycorn, a Ballad,- - 156 

Written in Friars-Carse Hermitage, in Nith- 

Side, 173 

Ode, Sacred to the memory of Mrs. , of , 175 

Elegv on Capt. Matthew Henderson, 176 

The Epitaph, 179 

To Robert Graham, Esq., of F'mtra, 182 

Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn,--- 185 

Lines sent to Sir John Whitefoord of White- 

1, Bart., with the fore«oin£ P* m, — 188 



CONTENTS. XXl 

PAGH. 

Tain O'Shanter, a Tale, 188 

On seeing a wounded Hare limp by me, which a 

fellow had just shot at, 195 

Address to the Shade of Thompson, on crown- 
ing his bust at Ednam, Roxburghshire, with 

Bays, 195 

Epitaph on a celebrated Ruling Elder, 196 

On a Noisy Polemic, - 196 

On Wee Johnie, 197 

For the Author's Father, — 197 

For R. A., Esq., 197 

For G. H . Esq., 197 

A Bard's Epitaph, 198 

On the late Captain Grose's Peregrinations 
through Scotland, collecting the Antiquities 

of that Kingdom, 199 

To Miss Cruikshanks, a very young Lady 
Written on the blank leaf of a Book, presented 

to her by the Author, 201 

On reading, in a Newspaper, the Death of John 
M'Leod. Esq., Brother to a young Lady, a par- 
ticular Friend of the Authors, - 202 

The Humble petition of Bruar Water to the No- 
ble Duke of Athole, 203 

On scaring some Water-Fowl in Loch-Turit. --- 206 
Written with a Pencil over the Chimney-piece, 
in the Parlor of the Inn at Kenmore, Tay- 

mouth, — 207 

Written with a Pencil, standing by the Fall of 

Fyers. near Loch-Ness, 208 

On the Birth of a Posthumous Child, Bern in 
peculiar circumstances of Family Distress.--- 209 

The Whistle, a Ballad, -— 210 

Second Epistle to Davie, 214 

Lines on an Interview with Lord Daer, 218 

On the Death of a Lap-Dog, named Echo, 222 

Inscription to the Memory of Fergusson, 223 

Epistle to R. Graham, Esq., 224 

Fragment, inscribed to the Right Honorable u. J. 

Fox, - 223 

To Dr. Blacklock, 229 

Prologue, spoken at the Theatre Ellisland, on 

New-Year's Day Evening. 231 

Flegy on the late Miss Burnet, of Monhoddo,--- 233 
I W Rights of Woman, 225 



XXll CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Address, spoken by Miss Fontenelle, on her Ben- 
efit Night, Dec. 4, 1795, at the Theatre, Dum- 
fries, 237 

Verses to a young Lady, with a present of 

Songs, 27J 

Lines written on a blank leaf of a copy of his 

poems presented to a young Lady, - 295 

Copy of a Poetical Address to Mr. Wm. Tytler, 335 

Caledonia, - — 336 

Poem written to a Gentleman who had sent him 
a Newspaper, and offered to continue it free 

of expense, 338 

Poem on Pastoral Poetry, 339 

Sketch — New Year's Day,- -- 342 

Extempore, on the Late Mr. William Smellie, -- 344 
Poetical Inscription for an Altar to Indepen- 
dence, 344 

Sonnet, on the Death of Robert Riddel, Esq.,-- 345 

Monody on a Lady famed for her caprice, 346 

The Epitaph, 346 

Answer to a mandate sent by the Surveyor of 

the Windows, Carriages. &c, 347 

Impromptu, on Mrs. 's Birth-day, 350 

To a young Lady, Miss Jessy , Dumfries; 

with Books which the Bard presented her, --- 351 
Sonnet, written on the 25th of January, 1793, the 
B rth-day of the Author, on hearing a Thrush 

sing in a morning walk, 352 

Extempore, to Mr. S**e, on refusing to dine with 

him. --- 352 

To Mr. S**e, with a present of a dozen of porter. 353 
Poem, addressed to Mr. Mitchell, collector of Ex- 
cise, Dumfries, 1796, - 354 

Sent to a Gemleman whom he had offended, --- 355 
Poem on Life, addressed to Col. De Peyster, 

Dumfries, - 356 

Address to the Tooth-ache, - 357 

To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry, on receiv- 
ing a favor, — 362 

Epitaph on a Friend, - - 362 

A Grace before Dinner, • 362 

On Sensibility. Addres.sed to Mrs. Dunlop, of 

Dunlop, 363 

A Verse. When Death's dark stream I ferry 



CONTENTS. XX111 

PAGE. 

Verses written at Selkirk, - 3<>5 

Liberty, a Fragment, ---. — 3fig 

Elegy on the death of Robert Ruisseaux, 3(>8 

Tlie loyal Natives' Verses, 370 

Burns— Extempore, 370 

To J Lapraik, 370 

To the Rev. John M'Math, enclosing a copy of 

Holy WMlie's Prayer, which he had requested, 372 
To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Maucliline, recom- 
mending a Boy, 375 

To Mr. iM'Adam. of Craigen-Gillan. 377 

To G'apt Riddel, Glenriddel, - - 378 

To Terraughty, on his Birth-day, 379 

To a Lady, vviih a present of a pair of driuking- 

glasses, - - 380 

The Vowels, a Tale, 380 

Sketch,-- - - 381 

Scots Prologue, for Mr. Sutherland's Benefit, -- 382 
Extemporaneous Effusion on being appointed to 

the Excise, 284 

On seeing the beautiful seat of Lord G., 384 

On the same, 384 

On the same, 385 

To the same, on the Author being threatened 

with his resentment, -- 386 

The Dean of Faculty, - - 385 

Extempore in the Court of Session, 3^ 

Verses to J. Ranken, 387 

On hearing that there was falsehood in the Rev. 

Dr. B 's very looks, — — 388 

On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish. Fifeshire,-- 388 

Elegy on the Year 1788, a Sketch, - 3H9 

Verses written under the Portrait of Fergusson, 

the Poet, 390 

The Guidwife of Wauchope-house to Robert 

Burns, - 421 

The Answer, 423 

The Kirk's Alarm, a Satire, 439 

The Twa Herds, 442 

Epistle from a Tailor to Robert Burns, 445 

The Answer, - 447 

Letter to John Goudie, Kilmarnock, on the pub- 
lication of his Essavs, - - 450 

Letter to J— s T 1 Gl 11c r, 451 

On the Death of Sir Jarnes Hunter Blair, - 452 



£xi7 CONTENTS. 

The Jolly Beggara, a Cantata 454 



SONGS. 



A. 

Adieu! a heart-warm, fond adieu ! ~ — 171 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 261 

Ae fond kiss and then we sever, «■ 403 

Again rejoicing nature sees, --- — 167 

A Highland lad my love was born, - 459 

Altho' my bed were in yon muir, — 419 

Amang the trees where humming bees, 415 

An O, for ane and twenty, Tarn ! 318 

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December!- 325 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire — 201 

A rose-bud by my early walk, 305 

As I cam in by our gate-end, - -- 425 

As 1 stood by yon roofless tower, 333 

As I was a-wandering ae morning in spring,--- 420 
Awa wi your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms 298 



Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, 164 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive, 283 

Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, - 397 

Blithe, blithe and merry was she, 304 

Blithe hae 1 been on yon hill, 253 

Bonnie lassie, will ye go,--- 300 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing,- — 317 

But lately seen in gladsome green, 277 

By Allan stream I chanced to rove, 259 

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, 234 

C. 

Ca' the yowes to the knowea, - 272 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy 1 283 

Clarinda, mistress of my soul, - — — 308 

Come, let me take thee to my breast, 262 

Comin thro' the rye, poor body, 369 

Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, - 282 

QotiJd augiit of song ete*l*r* my pates, «—<—-- 490 



CONTENTS. XXV 

FAOB. 

D. 

Deluded swain, the pleasure — — 267 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat 1 — — 353 

Duncan Gray came here to woo, 243 

F. 

Fair the face of orient day, - 432 

Fairest maid on Devon banks, 300 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and 

ye skies, >■ 234 

Farewell, thou stream that winding flows, 280 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, 407 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 331 

First when Maggie was my care, 406 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

braes, 337 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, 295 

From the. Eliza, I must go, 170 

G. 

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night,—- -- 316 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 393 

Green grows the rashes, O! 166 

H. 

Had I a cave on souse wild, distant shore, 258 

Here awa. there awa, wandering Willie, 248 

Here's a bottle and an honest friend, 408 

Here's a health to ane 1 lo'e dear, 299 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 419 

I 'ere is the glen, and here the bower, 270 

Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, 420 

How can my poor heart be glad, 271 

How cruel are the parents, 290 

How long and dreary is the night, - -- 275 

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding 

Devon - 219 

Husband, husband, cease your strife, — -• - 268 



I am a bard of no regard, — 463 

I am a fiddler to my trade,-- 460 

I am a son of .Mars, 455 

I do confess thou art so fair. 396 

I dream'd 1 lay where flowers were springing,- 391 

c 



XXVI CONTENTS. 

pa at 

I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen,-- 3i. 

I hae a wife o' my ain, 211 

I'll ay ca' in by yon town 4i r > 

I'll kiss thee yet, yet, 408 

In simmer when the hay was mawn, -- 3KJ 

I once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, 456 

Is there for honest poverty, -- — 2?4 

In Mauchline there dwells six proper young 

belles, 429 

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face, - 269 

It was upon a Lammas night, 161 

It was the charming month of May,- 279 



J. 

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss, 359 

John Anderson my jo, John, - 314 

K. 
Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose 1 — — - 360 

L. 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 279 

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, 296 

Let me ryke up to dight that tear, 4C0 

Let not woman e'er complain ■-- 276 

Long, long the night, 28S 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes, 302 

Louis, what reck I by thee, - 329 



M. 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, 291 

Musing on the roaring ocean, - 303 

My bonnie lass, I work in brass, 461 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 278 

My father was a farmer upon the Carrick bor- 
der, O, 400 

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie, 314 

My heart 's in the Highlands, my heart is not 

here,- 394 

My heart is sair, I dare na tell, 329 

My lady's gown, there's gairs upon't, 427 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, - 360 



CONTENTS. XXVil 

PAGE 

N. 
Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair, 349 

No churchman am I for to rail and to write, 172 

Now bank and hrae are claitifd in green 403 

Now in her green mantle blithe nature arrays.- 2i-4 

Now nature hangs her mantle green, 181 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 262 

Now spring has cloth'd the groves in green, 293 

Now weslin winds and slaughtering guns, 163 

O. 

O ay my wife she dang me, 431 

O bonnie was yon rosy brier, - 29-1 

O cam ye h( re the fight to shun, 341 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 310 

O gin my love were yon red rose, 255 

O guid ale comes, and guid ale goes, — 430 

O how can I be blithe and glad, -- 404 

Oh, open the door, some pity to show, — 250 

Oh. wert thou in the cauld blast, 350 

O ken ye wha Meg o' the Mill has gottenl 253 

O lassie, art thou sleepin yet 1 — 286 

O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles, — 430 

O leeze me on my spinning wheel, -»- 318 

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide, 2.54 

O lovely Polly Stewart. 425 

O luve will venture in, where it daur na weel be 

seen, 321 

O Mary, at thy window be, — --- 247 

O May. thy morn was ne'er sa sweet, 3:il 

O meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty, --- 315 

O mirk, mirk is the midnight hour, 246 

O my hive's like a red, red rose. 333 

On a bank of flowers, one summer's day, 433 

On Cessnock banks there lives a lass,-- 4(i9 

One night as I did wander, 410 

O, once I Iov'd a bonnie lass, - 222 

O riiilly, happy be the day, - 281 

O poortith cauld, and restless love,- -• 214 

O raging fortune's withering blast, 418 

O saw ye bonnie Lesley. — 240 

O saw ye my dear, my Phely 1 275 

O nay, sweet warbling wood4ark, stay, - 288 

O ve'l na me o' wind and rain, ---* 287 

O, this is no my ain lassie, - 292 



XXV ill CONTENTS. 

f> A G fe 

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, 3uti 

O, wat ye wha's in yen town, --- 332 

O, were I on Parnassus' hill ! --- — olO 

O wha is she that lo'es me, 3">8 

O wha my babie-clouts will buy? 3i>3 

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad, 2P>fl 

O, Willie brevv'd a peck o' maut, — --- iilJ 

O wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar,--- 4*2*5 
O why the deuce should I repine, 4'ifi 

P. 
Powers celestial, whose protection, 412 

R. 

Raving winds around her blowing, — 303 

Robin shure in hairst, --- • 42? 



Sae flaxen were her ringlets, — • - 273 

Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, 30-1 

Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 2:i5 

See the smoking bowl before us,-- - 4(54 

She's fair and fause that causes my smart, 326 

She is a. winsome wee thing. 240 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 204 

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, 457 

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature,-- 27G 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires, 4.'i4 

Stay, my charmer, can you leave me? 301 

Streams that glide in orient plains, 220 

Sweet fa*s the eve on Craigie-burn, - 2x6 

Sweetest May, let love inspire thee, — 406 

T. 

The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout,--- «•- 431 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen, 311 

The day returns, my bosom burns, 308 

The deil cam fiddling thro' the town, 412 

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, 169 

The heather was blooming, the meadows were 

mawn. — 413 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, - 30^ 
The lovelv lass o' Inverness, 3'lfl 



The small birds rejoice in the green leaves re- 
turning, 



•:-j\ 



CONTENTS. XXIX 

FAOB. 

The smiling spring comes in rejoicing, 328 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea, - 313 

The winter it is past, and the simmer comes at 

last, - 421 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands 

reckon,--- _. 289 

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, 242 
There's a youth in this city, if were a great pity, 394 

There's braw, biaw lads on Yarrow braes, 245 

There was a bonnie lass, and a bonnie, bonnie 

lass, 426 

There was a lad was born al Kyle. 416 

There was a lass, and she was fair, 256 

There were five carl ins in the South, 435 

Thickest night o'erhang my dwelling, 302 

Thine am I, my faithful fair, 268 

Tho' crui 1 fate should bid us part, 402 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, — - 264 

Thou lingering star, w.th less'ning ray, 217 

To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains, 420 

True hearted was he, the sad swain of Yarrow, 250 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 321 

Twas even, the dewy fields were green, 216 

'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin, 290 

U. 
Up in the morning's no for me, 391 

W. 

Wae is my heart and the tear's in my e'e, 411 

Wee Willie Gray, and hi3 leather wallet, 428 

Wha is this at my bovver door? 399 

What can a young lassie, what shall a young 

lassie, - 316 

When first I came to Stewart Kyle, 417 

When Guilford good our pilot stood, 159 

When o'er the hill the eastern star, 238 

When January winds were blawing cauld, 438 

When wild wars deadly biast was blawn, 25>. 

Where are the joys I hae met in the morning, -- 266 

Where braving angry winter's storms, 306 

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, - 328 

While larks, with little wing, 258 

Why, why tell thy lover, 298 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, -- 339 



XXX CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, — 324 

Wilt thou be my dearie? 325 

Y 

Ye banks and braes, and streams, around, 241 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, -- 323 

Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, 323 

Ye gallants bright I red you right, ~ 3l»2 

"estreen I had a pint o' wine, 411 

Yon wand'ring rill, that marks the hill, 425 

Yon wild mossy mountains, 35»8 

Young Jockey was the blithest lad, 4<>6 

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, 414 

You're welcome to Desoots, Dumourier, — 388 



CONTENTS 



ADDITIONAL POEMS 



PAGE. 

Holt Willie's Prayer,-— 467 

The Farewell, 470 

Willie Chalmers, - 471 

Lines written on a Bank-Note, — — 472 

A Bard's Epitaph, - 473 

Epistle to Major Logan, - 474 

On the Death of Robert Dundas, Esq., 476 

Epistle to Hugh Parker, - 478 

To John M'Murdo, Esq., 479 

Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq.,---'- 480 

Address of Beelzebub to the President of the 

Highland Society, 483 

To John Taylor, ---- 4->5 

On seeing Miss Fontenelle in a favorite charac- 
ter. -- 486 

The Book-Worms, - 4.-6 

The Reproof, 486 

The Reply, - - — 487 

The Kirk of Lamington, - 4s7 

The League and Covenant,—-- 4S7 

Inscription on a Goblet, - 4-7 

The Toad-Eater, 487 

The Selkirk Grace, - 488 

On the Poet's Daughter, 488 

The Sons of Old Killie, — 488 

On a Suicide, — 4-9 

The Joyful Widower, 489 

There was a Lass, - 490 

Theniel Menzie'a Bonnie M«»ry, 491 

xui 



XXX11 CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Frae'the Friends and Land I love, 492 

Weary Fa' You, Duncan Giaj,- - - 49:3 

The Blude Red Rose at Yule may Maw, 494 

The Ploughman, -— 495 

Ratllin', Roarin' Willie, - 496 

As I was a-wnndering, — 497 

My Harry was a Gallant Gay,—— -.._. 498 

Simmer's a Pleasant Time, 499 

When Rosy May, 499 

Lady Mary Ann, - — 500 

My Love, she's but a Lassie yet,— -— 501 

Sensibility how Charming, — 502 

Out over the Forth, — 503 

TheTither Morn, 503 

The Cardin' o't, — - 605 

The Weary Pund o' Tow. - 505 

Sae Far Awa, - 506 

Such a Parcel of Rogues in a Nation, — 507 

Here's His Health in Water! 50tj 

The Lass of Ecclefechan, 508 

The Highland Laddie, 509 

Here's to thy Health, my Bonnie Lass, 510 

Address to a Young Lady, - 511 

Song, 512 

O Lay thy Loof in Mine, Lass, 512 

To Chloris, — 513 

Peg-a Ramsey, - 514 



PREFACE 

TO THE FIBST EDITION OP 

BURNS' POEMS 

PUBLISHED AT KILMABJTOCK IS 1788. 



The following trifles are not the production of 
<he poet, who, with all the advantages of learned 
art, and, perhaps, amid the elegancies and idle- 
nesses of upper life, looks down for a rural theme, 
with an eye to Theocritus or Virgil. To the au- 
thor of this, these and odier celebrated names, 
their countrymen, are, at least in the original lan- 
guage, a fountain shut up, and a book sealed. 
Unacquainted with the necessary requisites foi 
commencing poet by rule, he sings the sentiments 
and manners he felt and saw in himself and in 
his rustic compeers around him, in his and their 
native language. Though a rhymer from his 
earliest years, at least from the earliest impulses 
of the softer passions, it was not till very lately 
that the applause, perhaps the partiality, of friend- 
ship, wakened his vanity so far as to make him 
think anything of his worth showing ; and none 
of the following works were composed with a 
view to the press. To amuse himself with the 
little creations of bis own fancy, amid the toil 

xxxiii 



XAJQV PREFACE. 

and fatigues of a laborious life ; to transcribe the 
various feelings, the loves, the griefs, the hopes, 
the fears, in his own breast : to find some counter- 
poise to the struggles of a world, always an alien 
scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind — these 
were his motives for courting the Muses, and in: 
these he found poetry to be his own reward. 

Now that he appears in the public character 
of an au*hor, he does it with fear and trembling* 
So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, that, even 
he, an obscure, nameless Bard, shrinks aghast at 
the thought of being branded as — An imperti- 
nent blockhead, obtruding his nonsense on the 
world ; and, because he can make a shift to jin- 
gle a few doggerel Scotch rhymes together, look- 
ing upon himself as a poet of no small conse- 
quence, forsooth ! 

It is an observation of that celebrated poet, 
Shenstone, whose divine elegies do honor to our 
language, our nation, and our species, that " Hu- 
mility has depressed many a genius to a hermit, 
but never raised one to fame !" If any critic 
catches at the word genius, the author tells him 
once for all, that he certainly looks upon himself 
as possessed of some poetical abilities, otherwise 
his publishing in the manner he has done, would 
be a maneuver below the worst character, which, 
he hopes, his worst enemies will ever give him. 
But to the genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious 
drawings of the poor unfortunate Fergusson, he, 
with equal unaffected sincerity, declares, that, 
even in his highest pulse of vanity, he has not th«» 
most distant pretensions. These two justly a<? 



PREFACE. XXXV 

mired Scotch poets he has often had m ej e in the 
following pieces : but rather with a view to kin- 
dle at their flame than for servile imitation. 

To his Subscribers, the author returns his most 
sincere thanks. Not the mercenary bow over & 
counter, but the heart-throbbing gratitude of the 
bard, conscious how much he owes to benevo- 
lence and friendship, for gratifying him, if he de- 
serves it, in that dearest wish of every poetic 
bosom — to be distinguished. He begs his readers, 
particularly the learned and polite, who will honor 
him with a perusal, that they will make every 
allowance for education and circumstances of 
life ; but if, after a fair, candid, and impartial 
criticism, he shall stand convicted of dullness and 
nonsense, let him be done by as he would in tb * 
case do by others — let him be condemned, wtbi- 
out mercy, to contempt and oblivion 



DEDICATION 

TO TliB 

8ECOND EDITION OF THE 

POEMS FORMERLY PRINTED 



NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN 

OF THE 

CALEDONIAN HUNT. 
My Lords and Gentlemen, 

A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and 
whose highest ambition is to sing in his Conn- 
try's service — where shall he so properly look 
for patronage as to the illustrious names of his 
native Land ; thoae who bear the honors and in- 
herit the virtues of their Ancestors ! The Poetic 
Genius of my Country found me, as the proph- 
etic bard Elijah did Elisha — at the plow; and 
threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade 
me sing the loves, the joys, the rural scenes and 
rural pleasures of my native soil, in my native 



XXXviii DEDICATION. 

tongue: I tuned my wild, artless notes, as sh* 
inspired — She whispered me to come to tliis an- 
cient Metropolis of Caledonia, and lay my Sumr* 
under your honored protection ; I now obey her 
dictates. 

Though much indebted to your goodness, I do 
not approach you, my Lords and Gentlemen, in 
the usual style of dedication, to thank you for pa*n 
favors ; that path is so hackneyed by prostitute! 
learning, that honest rusticity is ashamed of it. 
Nor do I present this Address with the venal 
soul of a servile Author, looking for a continua- 
tion of those favors ; I was bred to the Plow, and 
am independent. I come to claim the common 
Scottish name with you, my illustrious Country- 
men ; and to tell the world that I glory in the 
title. I come to congratulate my Country, that 
the blood of her ancient heroes still runs uncon- 
taminated ; and that from your courage, know'- 
edge, and public spirit, she may expect protection, 
wealth, and liberty. In the last place, I come to 
proffer my warmest wishes to the Great Foun- 
tain of Honor, the Monarch of the Universe, for 
your welfare and happiness. 

When you go forth to waken the Echoes, m 
the ancient and favorite amusement of your fort^ 



DEDICATION. XXXW 

fathers, may Pleasure ever be of your party ; 
rand may Social Joy await your return. When 
harassed in courts or camps with the jostlings 
•of bad men and bad measures, may the honest 
consciousness of injured worth attend your re- 
turn to your native Seats ; and may Domestic 
Happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet you at 
your gates ! May corruption shrink at your 
kindling, indignant glance ; and may tyranny in 
the Ruler, anil licentiousness in the People, 
equally find you an inexorable foe ! 
I have the honor to be, 

With the sincerest gratitude. 
And highest respect, 

My Lords and Gentlemen, 
Your most devoted and humble servant, 
ROBERT BURNS. 
Edinburgh, April 4, 1787 



POEMS, 

CHIEFLY SCOTTISH 



THE TWA DOGS. 



'T was in that place o' Scotland's isle, 
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, 
Upon a bonnie day in June, 
When wearing thro' the afternoon, 
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, 
Forgather'd ance upon a time. 

The first I '11 name, they ca'd him Ccssat , 
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure: 
His hair, his size, his month, his lugs, 
Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs; 
But whalpit some place far abroad, 
Where sailors gang to fish for cod. 

His locked, letter' d, braw brass collar, 
Show'd him the gentleman and scholar; 
But though he was o' high degree, 
The fient a pride, na pride had he ; 
But wad hae spent an hour caressin, 
Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin. 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'ersae duddie, 
But he wad stawn't, as glad to see him, 
And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. 
D 1 



9 BURNS' POEMS. 

The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, 
Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, 
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, 
After some dog in Highland sang,* 
Was made lang syne — Lord knows how lang. 

He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, 
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. 
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Ay gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his towzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, 
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swurl. 

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 
An' unco pack an' thick thegither ; 
Wi' social nose whyles snuff d and snowkit, 
Whyles mice an' moudieworts they howkit ; 
Whyles scour'd awa' in lang excursion, 
An' worry' d ither in diversion ; 
Until wi' darfin weary grown, 
Upon a knowe they sat them down, 
And there began a lang digression 
About the lords a 1 the creation. 



I've aften wonder' d, honest Luath, 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have , 
An' when the gentry's life I saw, 
What way poor bodies liv'd ava. 

Our Laird gets in his racked retits, 
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents ; 
He rises when he likes himsel ; 
His flunkies answer at the bell ; 
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; 

• Cuchu'.nn's dog in Oasian's Fing&l. 



BURNS* POEMS. I 

He draws a bonnie silken purse 

As lang's ray tail, whare, thro' the steeks, 

The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. 

Frae mom to e'en it's nought but toiling, 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 
An' tho' the gentry first are stechin, 
Yet ev'n the na' folk fill their pechan 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and siclike trashtrie, 
That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
Our Whipper-in, wee blastit wonner, 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner 
Better than ony tenant man 
His Honour has in a' the Ian' : 
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, 
I own it's past my comprehension. 

LTJATH. 

Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash't eneugh ; 
A. cottar howkin in a sheugh, 
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, 
Baring a quarry, and sic like, 
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, 
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans, 
An' nought but his han' darg, to keep 
Them right and tight in thack an' rape. 

An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters, 
Ye maist wad think a wee touch langer, 
An' they maun starve o' cauld an' hunger; 
But how it comes, I never kenn'd yet, 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented ; 
An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 



But then to see how ye' re negleckit, 
How huff d, and cuff d, and disrespeckit 



4 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

L — d, man, our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle; 
They gang as saucy by poor fo'k, 
As I wad by a stinking brock. 

I've notic'd, on our Laird's court -day, 
An' mony a time my heart's been wae, 
Poor tenant bodies scant o' cash, 
How they maun thole a factor's snash : 
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear, 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
While they maun staun', wi' aspect humble, 
An' hear it a', an 1 fear an' tremble. 

I see how folk live that hae riches ; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches ! 



They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think : 
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink : 
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, 
The view o't gies them little fright. 

Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, 
They're ay in less or mair provided ; 
An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives ; 
The prattling things are just their pride, 
That sweetens a' their fire-side. 

An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy 
Can mak the bodies unco happy ; 
They lay aside their private cares, 
To mend the Kirk and State affairs : 
They'll talk o' patronage and priests, 
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts, 
Or tell what new taxations comin, 
An' ferlie at the folk in Lorion. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns. 
They get the jovial, ranting kirns, 
When rural life, o' cv'ry station, 
Unite in common recreation ; 
Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth, 
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 

That merry day the year begins, 
They bar the door on frosty winds ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
The luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill, 
Are handed round wi-' richt guid will : 
The cantie auld folks crackin crouse, 
The young anes rantin thro' the house, — ■ 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them 

Still it's owre true that ye hae said, 
Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 
There's monie a creditable stock, 
0' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k, 
Are riven out baith root and branch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster 
In favor wi' some gentle master, 
Wha, aiblins thrang a-parliamentin, 
For Britain's guid his saul indentin— 

CESAR. 

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it ; 
For Britain's guid ! guid faith ! I doubt it: 
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, 
An' saying aye or no's they bid him, 
At operas an plays parading, 
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading ; 
Or may be, in a frolic daft, 
To Hague or Calais takes a waft, 
To make a tour, an' take a whirl, 
To learn bon ton, an' see the warl'. 



BURNS POEMS. 

There, at Vienna or Versailles, 
He rives his father's auld entails ; 
Or by Madrid he takes the rout, 
To thrum guitars, and fecht wi' nowt ; 
Or down Italian vista startles, 
Wh-re-hunting among groves o' myrtles; 
Then bouses drumly German water, 
To mak himsel look fair and fatter, 
An' clear the consequential sorrows, 
Love-gifts of Carnival signoras. 
For Britain's guid ! for her destruction ! 
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction. 

LUATH. 

Hech man ! dear Sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae mony a braw estate ! 
Are we sae foughten an' harass' d 
For gear to gang that gate at last ! 

O would they stay aback frae courts, 
An' please themsels wi 1 kintra sports, 
It. wad for ev'ry ane be better, 
The Laird, the Tenant, and the Cotter ! 
For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, 
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows ; 
Except for breakin o' their timmer, 
Or speakin lightly o' their liinmer, 
Or shootin o' a hare or moor-cock, 
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me. Master Cwsar, 
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ? 
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them, 
The vera thought o't need na fear them. 

CJ5SAR. 

L — d, man, were ye but whyles whare I nrn 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 

It's true they need na starve or sweat, 
Thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's heat ; 



BURNS" POEMS. 

They've nae sair wark to craze their banes. 
An' rill auld age wi' gripes an' granes: 
But human bodies are sic fools, 
F'or a' their colleges and schools, 
That when nae real ills perplex them, 
They make enow themselves to vex them ; 
An' ay the less they hae to sturt them, 
In like proportion less will hurt them. 
A country fellow at the pleugh, 
[lis acres till'd, he's right eneugh ; 
A kintra lassie at her wheel, 
Fler dizzens done, she's unco weel : 
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 
Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank an' lazy; 
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy ; 
Their days, insipid, dull an' tasteless ; 
Their nights unquiet, lang an' restless ; 
An' e'en their sports, their balls an' races, 
Their galloping thro' public places. 
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an 1 art, 
The joy can scarcely reaclT the heart, 
The men cast out in party matches, 
Then sowther a' in deep debauches ; 
Ae night they're mad wi' drink an 1 wh-ring, 
N T iest day their life is past enduring. 
The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, 
As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
But hear their absent thoughts o 1 ither, 
They're a 1 run deils an 1 jads thegither. 
Whyles o'er the wee bit cup an' platie, 
They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 
Or lee-lang nights, wr crabbit leuks, 
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks , 
•Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
An 1 cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard. 

There's some exception, man an 1 woman ; 
But this is Gentry's life in common. 



8 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

By this, the sun was out o' sight. 
Air darker gloaming brought the night! 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone , 
The kye stood rowtin i 1 the loan ; 
When up they gat, and shook their lugs, 
Rejoiced they were na men, but dogs; 
An' each took affhis several way, 
Resolv'd to meet some ither day. 



SCOTCH DRINK. 

Gie him strong drink, until he wink, 

That's sinking in despair ; 
An' liquor guid to fire his bluid, 

That's press'd wi' grief an' care ; 
There let him bouse, an' deep carouse, 

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, 
Till he forgets his loves or debts, 

An' minds his griefs no more. 

Solomon's Proverbs xxxi. 6, 7. 

Let other poets raise a fracas 

'Bout vines, an 1 wines, an 1 drunken Bacchus, 

An' crabbit names an 1 stories wrack us, 

An 1 grate our lug, 
I sing the juice Scots bear can mak us, 

In glass or jug. 

O thou, my Muse ! guid auld Scotch Drink, 
Whether thro 1 wimpling worms thou jink, 
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink, 

In glorious faem, 
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink, 

To sing thy name ! 

Let husky Wheat the laughs adorn 
An 1 Aits set up their awnie horn. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

An' Pease and Beans at e'en or morn, 
Perfume the plain, 

Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 

Thou king o' grain ! 

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, 
In souple scones, the wale o' food, 
Or tumblin in the boiling flood 

Wi' kail an' beef; 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, 
There thou shines chief. 

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin ; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receiven, 
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin, 

But oil'd by thee, 
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, screvin, 
Wi' rattlin glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear ; 
Thou cheers the heart o' droopin Care ; 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labor sair, 
^ At's weary toil, 

i hou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 

Aft, clad in massy siller weed, 
Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head ; 
Vet humbly kind in time o' need, 

The poor man's wine} 
His wee drap parritch, or his bread, 

Thou kitchens fine. 

^ Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 
But thee, what were our fairs and rants ? 
Cv'n godly meeting o' the saunts, 

By thee inspir'd 

When gaping they besiege the tents, 

E Are doubly fir'd. 



10 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

That merry night we get the corn in, 
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in ! 
Or reekin on a New-year morning 

In cog or bicker, 
An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, 

An' gusty sucker ! 

When Vulcan gives his bellows breath, 
An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, 
O rare ! to see thee fizz an freath 

I' th' luggit caup ! 
Then Burnewiri* comes on like death 

At every chaup. 

Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel; 
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel, 
Brings hard owrehip, wi f sturdy wheel, 

The strong forehammer, 
Till block an' studdie ring an' reel 

Wi' dinsome clamor. 

When skirlin weanies see the light, 
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, 
How fumblin cuifs their dearies slight ; 

Wae worth the name ! 
Nae howdie gets a social night 

Or prack frae them. 

When neebors anger at a plea, 
An' just as wud as wud can be, 
How easy can the barley bree 

Cement the quarrel! 
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee 

To taste the barrel. 

Alake . that e'er my Muse has reason 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason J 

* Burneicin — bum-the-wind — the Blacksmith- -a» 
Appropriate title. E. 



BURNS 1 POFMH 

But monie daily weet their weason 
Wi' liquors nice, 

An' hardly, in a winter's season, 

E'er spier her price. 

Wae worth that brandy burning trash ! 
Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash, 
Twins monie a poor, doylt, drunken hash, 

O' half his days, 
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 

To her warst faes. 

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well ! 
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, 
Poor plackless deevils like mysel ! 
It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, 
Or foreign gill. 

May gravels round his blather wrench, 
An' gouts torment him inch by inch, 
Who twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 

O' sour disdain, 
Out owre a glass o' wlrisky punch 

Wi' honest men. 

Whisky ; saul o' plays an 1 pranks ! 
Accept a Bardie's humble thanks ! 
When wanting thee, what tuneless crank a 

Are my poor verses ! 
Thou comes — they rattle i' their ranks 

At ither's a — s ! 

Thee, Ferintosh ! sadly lost ! 
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast ! 
Now colic grips, an' barkin hoast 

May kill us a'; 
For royal Forbes' charter' d boast 

Ts ta'en awa ' 



12 BURNS' POEMS. 

Thae curst horse-leeches o' the Excise, 
Wha mak the Whisky Slelh their prize! 
Hand up thy han\ Deil ! ance, twice, thrice! 

There, seize the blinkers ! 
And bake them up in brunstane pies 

For poor d — n'd drinkers. 

Fortune ! if thou'll but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a scone and Whisky gill, 
An 1 rowth o 1 ryme to rave at will, 

Tak a 1 the rest, 
An 1 deal't about as thy blind skill 

Directs thee best. 



THE AUTHOR S 
EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER* 

TO THE 

SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES 

IN THE 

HOUSE OF COMMONS. 

Dearest of Distillation ! last and best 

—How art thou lost 7 — Parody on Milton. 

Ye Irish Lords, ye Knights an 1 Squires, 
Wha represent our brughs an 1 shires, 
An 1 doucely manage our affairs 

In parliament, 
To you a simple Poet's prayers 

Are humbly sent. 

* This was written before the act anent the Scotch 
rustilleries. of session 1786; for which Scotland and 
the Author return their most grateful thanks. 



BURNS' POEMS. 13 

Alas ! my roupet Muse is hearse ! 
Your honors 1 hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce, 
To see her sittin on her a — 

Low i' the dust, 
An' scriechin out prosaic verse, 

An 1 like to brust ! 

Tell them wha hae the chief direction, 
Scotland an 1 trie's in great affliction, • 

E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction, 

On Aquavit ce; 
An' rouse them up to strong conviction, 

An' move their pity. 

Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth, 
The honest, open, naked truth : 
Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth, 

His servants humble ! 
The muckle deevil blaw ye south, 

If ye dissemble ! 

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom ? 
Speak out, an' never fash your thumb ! 
Let posts an' pensions sink or soom 

Wi' them wha grant 'em : 
If honestly they canna come, 

Far better want 'em. 

In gath'ring votes you were na slack ; 
Now stand as tightly by your tack ; 
Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back, 

An' hum an' haw ; 
But raise your arm, an' tell your crack 

Before them a'. 

Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissle ; 
Her mutchkin stoop as toom's a whissle : 
An' d — mn'd Excisemen in a bussle, 
Seizin a Stell, 



14 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

Triumphant crushin't like a mussel, 
Or lampit shell. 

Then on the tither hand present her, 
A blackguard Smuggler right behint her, 
An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie Vintner, 

Colleaguing join, 
Picking her pouch as bare as winter 

Of a' kind coin. 

Is there, that bears the name o 1 Scot, 
But feels his heart's bluid rising hot, 
To see his poor auld Mither's pot 

Thus dung in staves, 
An 1 plunder*d o 1 her hindmost groat 

By gallows knaves ? 

Alas! I'm but a nameless wight, 
Trode i' the mire clean out o' sight ; 
But could I like MontgorrCries fight. 

Or gab like Foswell, 
There's some sark-necks I wad draw tigh« 
An 1 tie some hose well 
God bless your Honors, can ye see't, 
The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet, 
An' no get warmly to your feet, 

An 1 gar them hear it, 
An 1 tell them wi 1 a patriot heat, 

Ye winna bear it ! 
Some o 1 you nicely ken the laws, 
To round the period, an 1 pause, 
An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause 

To mak harangues ; 
Then echo thro 1 Saint Stephen's wa's 

Auld Scotland's wrangs. 
Dempster, a true blue Scot, I'se warran ; 
The aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran /* s 

* Sir Adam Ferguson. E. 



BURNS 1 POEfllS. l& 

An that glib-gabbet Highland Baron, 

The Luird o' Graham,^ 

An' ane, a chap that's d — m'nd auldfarran, 
Dundas his name. 

ErsJcine, a spunkie Norland billie ; 
True Campbells, Frederic an 1 Hay ; 
An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie; 

An' monie ithers 
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully 

Might own for brithers. 

Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle, 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; 
Or faith ! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, 

YeTl see't, or lang, 
She'll teach you, wi' a reekin whittle, 

Anither sang. 
This while she's been in crankous mood, 
Her lost Militia fired her bluid; 
(Deil na they never mair do guid, 

Play'd her that pliskie!) 
An 1 now she's like to rin red-wud 

About her Whisky. 

An 1 L — d, if ance they pit her till't, 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, 
An 1 dark an' pistol at her belt, 

She'll tak the streets, 
An 1 rin her whittle to the hilt, 

F th 1 first she meets ! 

For G — d sake, Sirs ! then speak her fair, 
An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, 
An' to the muckle house repair, 

Wi' instant speed, 
An' strive wi' a 1 your Wit and Lear, 
To get rernead. 

f The present Duke of Montrose. (1800) 



16 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you wi 1 his jeers an 1 mocks : 
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! 

E'en cowe the caddie ; 
An' send him to his dicing box 

An' sportin lady. 

Tell yen guid bluid o 1 auld Boco7inock's, 
I'll be his uebt twa mashlum bonnocks, 
An' drink his health in auld Nanse TinnocWt* 

Nine times a-week, 
If he some scheme, like tea an 1 winnock's. 
Wad kindly seek. 

Could he some commutation broach, 
1*11 pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch 
He need na fear their foul reproach 
Nor erudition, 
Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, 
The Coalition. 

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ; 
She's just a devil wi' a rung ; 
An 1 if she promise auld or young 

To tak their part, 
Tho' by the neck she should be strung, 

Shell no desert. 

An' now, ye chosen Five- and- Forty, 
May still your Mither's heart support ye , 
Then, though a Minister grow dorty, 

An' kick your place, 
Ye' 11 snap your fingers, poor an' hearty, 

Before his face. 

God bless your Honors a' your days, 
Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claise, 

* A worthy old Hostess of the Author's in Mauchlint, 
whore he sometimes studied Politics ovet a glass of 
guid auld Scotch Drink. 



BURNS' POEMS. 17 

In spite o' a' the thievish kaes, 

That haunt St. Jamie'*, 
Your humble Poet sings an' prays 

While Bab his name is. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Let half-starv'd slaves, in warmer skies, 
See future wines, rich clust'ring, rise ; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, 

But blythe and frisky, 
She eyes her freeborn, martial boys, 

Takaff their Whisky. 
What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, 
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms ; 
When wretches range, in famish'd swarms, 

The scented groves, 
Or hounded forth, dishonor arms 

In hungry droves. 

Their gun's a burden on their shouther, 
They downa bide the stink o' powther; 
Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither 

To stan' or rin, 
Till skelp— -a shot— they're aff, a' throwther, 
To save their skin 

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, 
Clap in his cheek a Higland gill, 
Say, such is royal George's will, 

An there's the foe, 
He has nae thought but how to kill 
Twa at a blow. 

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings teas him | 
Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him ; 
Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him : 
An' when he fa's, 



18 BURNS' POEMS. 

His latest draught o' breathin lea'es him 
In faint huzzas. 

Sages their solemn een may steek. 
An' raise a philosophic reek, 
And physically causes seek, 

In clime and season , 
But teli me Whisky's name in Greek, 
I'll tell the reason. 

Scotland, my auld, respected Mither ! 
Tho" whiles ye moist ify your leather, 
Till whare ye sit, on craps o 1 heather, 

Ye tine your dam ; 
Freedom and Whisky gang thegither ! 

Tak aff your dram. 



THE HOLY FAIR.* 

A robe of seeming truth and trust 

Ji id crafty Observation ; 
And secret hung, with poison'd crust, 

The dirk of Defamation : 
A mask that like the gorget show'd, 

Dye-varying on the pigeon ; 
And for a mantle iatge and broad, 

He wrapt him in Religion. 

Hypocrisy a-la-modt. 

I. 

Ufon a simmer Sunday morn, 

When Nature's face is fair, 
I walked forth to view the corn, 

An' snuff the caller air, 
The rising sun owre Galsion muirs, 

Wi' glorious light was glintin ; 

* Holy Fair is a common phrase in the Westef Scot- 
land fur a Sacramental occasion. 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 

The hares were hirplin down the furs, 
The lav'rocks they were chantin 

Fu' sweet that day. 

II. 

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, 

To see a scene sae gay, 
Three Hizzies, early at the road. 

Cam skelpin up the way ; 
Twa had martfeeles o 1 dolefiT black. 

But ane wi 1 lyart lining ; 
The third, I hat gaed a wee a-back 

Was in the fashion shining 

Fu' gay that day. 

III. 

The twa appear'd like sisters twin, 

In feature, form, an' claes ! 
Their visage, wither'd, lang, an' thin, 

An' sour as ony slaes: 
The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp, 

As light as ony lambie, 
An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, 

As soon as e'er she saw me, 

Fu' kind that day. 

IV. 

Wi' bannet aff, quoth I, " Sweet lass, 

I think ye seem to ken me ; 
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face, 

But yet I canna name ye." 
Quo' she, an' laughin as she spak, 

An' taks me by the hands, 
" ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck 

Of a' the ten commands 

A screed some day. 



"Mi BURNS' POEMS. 

V. 

" My name is Fun — your cronie dear, 

The nearest friend ye hae ; 
An' this is Superstition here, 

An' that's Hypocrisy. 
I'm gaun to********* Holy Fair, 

To spend an hour in daflin : 
Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair, 

We will get famous laughin 

At them this day." 

VI. 
Quoth I, " With a' my heart, I'll do't: 

I'll get my Sunday's sark on, 
An' meet you on the holy spot ; 

Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin !" 
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time, 

An' soon I made me ready ; 
For roads were clad, frae side to side, 

Wi' monie a wearie body, 

In droves that day. 

VII. 
Here farmers gash, in ridin graith, 

Gaed hodden by their cotters; 
There, swankies young, in braw braid 
claith, 
Are springin o'er the gutters. 
The lassies, skelpin barerit, thrang, 

In silks an' scarlets glitter ; 
Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang, 
. An' farls bak'd wi' butter 

Fu' crump that day. 

VIII. 
When by the plate we set our nose, 
Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 31 

A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, 
An' we maun draw our tippence. 

Then in we go to see the show, 
On ev'ry side they're gathrin, 

Some carrying dales, some chairs an' stoohs 
An' some are busy blethrin 

Right loud that day. 

IX. 

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, 

An' screen our kintra Gentry, 
There, racer Jess, an' twa-three wh-res, 

Are blinkin at the entry. 
Here sits a row of tittlin jades, 

Wi' heaving breast and bare neck 
An' there a batch of wabster lads, 

Blackguarding frae K ck 

For /tin this day 

X. 
Here some are thinkin on their sins, 

An' some upo' their claes ; 
Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, . 

Anither sighs an' prays : 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi' screw'd up grace-proud faces ; 
On that a set o' chaps at watch, 

Thrang winkin on the lasses 

To chairs that day 

XI. 

happy is that man an' blest ' 
Nae wonder that it pride him ! 

Whase ain dear lass, that he likes bes 
Comes clinkin down beside him ! 

Wi' arm repos'd on the chair back, 
He sweetly does compose hire ! 



22 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

Which, by degrees, slips round her nock, 
Aii'h loof upon her bosom 

Unken'd that day. 

XII. 

Now a' the congregation o'er, 

Is silent expectation ; 
For ****** speeis the holy door, 

Wi' tidings o' d-mn-t — n. 
Should ffornie, as in ancient days, 

'Mang sons o' G — present him, 
The vera sight o' ***** ' s f ace , 

To's ain het hame had sent him 

Wi' fright that day. 

XIII. 
Hear how he clears the points o' faith, 

Wi' ratlin an' wi' thumpin ! 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, 

He's Stampin an' he's jumpin! 
His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd up snout, 

His eldritch squeel and gestures, 
Oh how they fire the heart devout, 

Like canthaiidian plasters, 

On sic a day ! 

XIV. 
But. hark ! the tent has ehang'd its voice < 

There's peace an' rest nae langer: 
For a' the real judges rise, 

They canna sit tor anger. 
***** opens out his cauld harangues, 

On practice and on morals ; 
\n' affthe godly pour in thrangs, 

To gie the jars an' barrels 

A lift that day. 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 23 

XV. 

What signifies his barren shine 

Of moral pow'rs and reason? 
His English style, an' gesture fine, 

Are a' clean out o' season. 
Like Socrates or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan Heathen, 
The moral man he does define, 

But ne'er a word o' faith in 

That's right that day. 

XVI. 

In guid time comes an antidote 

Against sic poison' d nostrum ; 
For ****** * t f rae the water-fit, 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 
See, up he's got the word o' G — , 

An 1 meek an 1 mim has view'd it, 
While Common- Sense has ta'en the road. 

An' aff, an' up the Cowgate,* 

Fast, fast, that day. 

XVII. 

We ***** * ? niest, the Guard relieves, 

An' Orthodoxy raibles, 
Tho' in his heart he weel believes, 

An 1 thinks it auld wives 1 fables : 
But, faith! the birkie wants a Manse, 

So, cannily he hums them ; 
Altho' his carnal wit an' sense 

Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him 
At times that day. 

XVIII. 
Now butt an' ben, the Change-house fills, 
Wi' yill-caup Commentators; 

"• A street so called, which faces the tent la — 



84 BURNS* POEMS. 

Here's crying out for bakes and gills, 
An' there the pint stowp clatters ; 

W'.ile thick an 1 thrang, an' loud an' lang 
tVi* Logic an' wi' Scripture, 

T icy raise a din, that in the end, 
Is like to breed a rupture 

O' wrath that day. 

XIX. 
Leeze me on Drink ! it gies us mair 

Than either School or College: * 

It kindles wit, it waukens lair, 

It pangs us fou o 1 knowledge. 
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, 

Or ony stronger potion, 
It never fails on drinking deep, 

To kittle up our notion 

By night or day. 

XX. 

The lads an 1 lasses blythely bent 

To mind baith saul an' body, 
Sit round the table weel content, 

An' steer about the toddy. 
On this ane 1 s dress, an' that ane's Ieu* : 

They're making observations ; 
While some are cozie i' the neuk, 

An' formin assignations, 

To meet some day 

XXI. 

But now the L — d's ain trumpet touts, 

Till a' the hills are rairin, 
An' echoes back return the shouts : 

Black ****** is na sparin : 
His piercing words, like Highland swords, 

Divide the joints an' marrow ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 

His talk o' H— II, where devils dwell, 
Our very sauls does harrow * 

Wi' fright that day. 

XXII. 
A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit, 

Fiird fou o' lowin brunstane, 
Whase ragin flame, an 1 scorchin heat, 

Wad melt the hardest whun-stane ! 
The half asleep start up wi 1 fear, 

An' think they hear it roarin, 
When presently it does appear, 

'Twas but some neebor snorin 

Asleep that day. 

XXIII. 
'Twad be owre lang a tale, to tell 

How monie stories past, 
An' how they crowded to the yill 

When they were a 1 dismist ; 
How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, 

Amang the furms an' benches; 
An' cheese an' bread frae women'a laps. 

Was dealt about in lunches, 

An 1 dawds that day. 

XXIV. 

In comes a gaucie gash Guidwife, 

An' sits down by the fire, 
Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife, 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The auld Guidmen about the grace, 

Frae side to side they bother, 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays, 

An' gi'es them't like a tether, 

Fu' lang that day. 

P * Shakspeare's Hamlet. 



96 RURNS' POEMS. 

XXV. 

Waesuckg ! for him that gets nae lass, 

Or lasses that hae naething ! 
Sma' need has he to say a grace, • 

Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
O wives, be mindfu 1 , ance yoursel, 

How bonnie lads ye wanted, 
An 1 dinna, for a kebbuck-heel, 

Let lasses be affronted 

On sic a day 

XXVI. 
Now Clinkumbell, wi 1 rattlin tow, 

Begins to jow an' croon ; 
Some swagger hame, the best they dow, 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slags the billies halt a blink, 

Till lasses strip their shoon: 
Wi' faith an' hope an 1 love an' drink, 

They're a 1 in famous tune, 

For crack that day. 

XXVII. 
How monie hearts this day converts 

O 1 sinners and o' lasses ! 
Their hearts o 1 stane, gin night are gane, 

As saft as ony flesh is. 
There's some are fou o' love divine , 

There's some are fou o' brandy ; 
An' monie jobs that day begin, 

May end in Houghmagandie 

Some other day. 



BURNS' POEMS. 27 

DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK. 
A TRUE 8TORY. 

Some books are lies frae end to end, 
And some great lies were never penn'd. 
Ev'n Ministers, they hae been kenn'd 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing whid, at times to vend, 

And nail't wi' Scripture. 

But this that I am gaun to tell 
Which lately on a night befel, 
Is just as true's the Deil's in h-11 

Or Dublin city : 
That e'er he nearer comes oursel 

'S a muckle pity. 

The Clachan yill had made me canty, 

I was na fau, but just had plenty ; 

I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay 

To free the ditches ; 
An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd ay 

Frae ghaists an' witche» 

The rising moon began to glow'r 
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre : 
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r, 

I set mysel ; 
But whether she had three or four, 

I cou'd na tell. 

I was come round about the hill, 
And toddlin down on Willie's mill, 
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill, 

To keep me sicker ; 
Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, 

I took a bicker. 



28 BURNS' POEMS. 

I there wi' Something did forgather, 

That put me in an eerie swither ; 

An awfu' sithe, out-owre ae showther, 

Clear-dangling, hang; 
A three-tae'd leister o» the ither 

Lay, large an' lang. 

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, 
The queerest shape that e'er I saw, 
For fient a wame it hod ava! 

And then, its shanks, 
They were as thin, as sharp an' sma' 

As cheeks o' branks. 

" Guid-een," quo' I ; " Friend ! hae ye been 

mawin, 
When ither folk are busy sawin ?"* 
It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan' , 

But naething spak; 
At length, says I, " Friend, whare ye gaun, 

Will ye go back?" 

It spak right howe, — " My name is Death, 
Hut be na fley'd." — Quoth I, " Guid faith, 
Ye're may be come to stap my breath ; 

But tent me, billie: 
I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith, 

See, there's a gully !" 

" Guidman," quo he, " put up your whittle, 
I'm no design'd to try its mettle ; 
But if I did, I wad be kittle 

To be mislear'd, 
I wad na mind it, no, that spittle 

Out-ower my beard.' 

"Weel, weel !" says I, " a bargain be't ; 
Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't ; 

• This rencounter happened in seed-time, 1781. 



BURNS' POEMS. 29 

We'll ease oar shanks an' tak a seat, 

Come, gies your news; 
This while * ye hae been monie a gate 
At monie a house." 
"Ay, ay !" quo' he, an' shook his head, 
" It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed 
Sin' I began to nick the thread. 

An 1 choke the breath ; 
Folk maun do something for their bread, 

An' sae maun Death. 
" Sax thousand years are near hand fled 
Sin' I was to the hutching bred, 
An' monie a scheme in vain's been laid, 

To stap or scar me ; 
Till ane' Hornbooks^ ta'en up the trade, 

An' faith, he'll waurme. 
" Ye ken Jock Hornbook V the Clachan, 
Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan ! 
He's grown sae well acquaint wi' BuchanX 

An' ither chaps, 
That weans haud out their fingers laughin, 

And pouk my hips. 
" See, here's a sithe, and there's a dart, 
They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart ; 
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art, 

And cursed skill, 
Has made them baith not worth a f — t, 

Damn'd haet they'll kill. 
" 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, 
I threw a noble throw at ane, 

* An epidemical fever was then raging in thai 
country 

f This gentleman, T)r. Hornbook, is, professionally, 
a brother of the Sovereign Order of the Ferula ; but, 
by intuition and inspiration, is at once an Apothecary, 
Surgeon, and Physician. 

t Buchan's Domestic Medicine 



30 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

WV less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain; 

But deil-ma care, 
It just play'd dirl up the bane, 

But did nae mair. 

"Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, 
And had sae fortify 'd the pait, 
That when I looked to my dart, 

It was sae blunt, 
Fient haet o't wad hae piere'd the heart 

Of a kail-runt. 

" I drew my sithe in sic a fury, 
I nearhand cowpit wi' my hurry, 
But the bauld Apothecary 

Withstood the shock ; 
I Alight as weel hae try'd a quarry 

O' hard whin rock. 

" Ev'n them he canna get attended, 
Altho' their face he ne'er had kend it, 
Just in a kail-blade, and send it, 

As soon he smells' t, 
Baith their disease, and what will mend it 

At once he tells't. 

"And then a' doctors 1 saws and whittles, 
Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, 
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles, 

He's sure to hae ; 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 

As A B C. 

" Calces o' fossils, earth, and trees ; 
True Sal-marinum o' the seas ; 
The Farina of beans and pease, 

He has't in plenty , 
Aqua-fortis, what you please, 

He can content ye. 



BURNS' POEMS. 31 

" Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, 

Urinus Spiritus of capons ; 

Or Mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, 

DistilTd per se ; 
Sal-alkali o' Midge-tail-clippings, 

And monie mae." 

*' Waes me for Johnny GecTs Hole* now," 
Quo' I, "if that the news be true ! 
His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, 

Sae white and bonnie, 
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew ; 

They'll ruin Johnnie!" 

The creature grain' d an eldritch laugh, 
And says, " Ye need na yoke the pleugh, 
Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh, 

Tak ye nae fear : 
They'll a* be trench'd wi' monie a sheugh 

In twa-three year. 

" Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae-death, 
By loss o' blood or want o' breath, 
This night I'm free to tak my aith. 

That Hornbook's skill 
Has clad a score i' their last claith, 

By drap an' will. 

"An honest Wabster to his trade, 

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce wee bred, 

Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, 

When it was sair ; 
The wife slade cannie to her bed, 

But ne'er spak mair. 

"A kintra Laird had ta'en the batts, 
Or some curmurring in his gut^. 

* The grave-digger. 



32 BURNS' POEMS. 

His only son for Hornbook sets, 

An' pays him well. 
The lad, for twa guid gimmer pets, 

Was laird himsel. 
"A bonnie lass, ye kend her name, 
Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame, 
She trusts hersel, to hide the shame, 

In Hornbook's care ; 
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame. 

To hide it there. 

" That's just a swalch o' Hornbook's way ; 
Thus goes he on from day to day, 
Thus does he poison, kill, an 1 slay, 

An's weel paid for't 
Yet stops me o' my lawfu 1 prey, 

Wi' his d-mn'd dirt. 
" But, hark! I'll tell you of a plot, 
Tho' dinna ye be speaking o't ; 
I'll nail the self-conceited Scot, 

As dead's a herrin : 
Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat, 

He gets his fairm !' 
But just as he began to tell, 
The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell 
Some wee short hour ayont the twal, 

Which rais'd us baith: 
I took the way that pleas'd mysel, 

And sae did Death. 



THE BRIGS OF AYR, 

A POEM. 

Inscribed to J. B*********, Esq. AVE. 

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, 
Learning his tuneful trade from every bough, 



BURNS' POEMS. 33 

The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, 
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green 

thorn bush ; 
The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, 
Or deep-ton'd plovers, gray, wild-whistling o'er 

the hill ; 
Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed, 
To hardy Independence bravely bred, 
By early Poverty to hardship steel'd, 
And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field, 
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, 
The servile mercenary Swiss of rhymes? 
Or labor hard the panegyric close, 
With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose ? 
No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings, 
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings, 
He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, 
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward. 
Still, if some Patron's gen'rous care he trace, 
Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace ; 
When B********* befriends his humble name, 
And hands the rustic stranger up to fame. 
With heart-felt throes his grateful bosom swells, 
The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels. 



'Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hap, 
And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap ; 
Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith 
Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath ; 
The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, 
Unnumber'd buds an' flowers' delicious spoils, 
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, 
Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak, 
The death o' devils smoor'd wi' brimstone reek ; 
The thundering guns are heard on every side, 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide; 



34 BURNS' POEMS. 

The feather'd field-mates, bound by N ature's tie, 
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : 
(What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, 
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds !) 
Nae mair the flower in field or meadow springs , 
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, 
Except perhaps the Robin's whistling glee, 
Proud o 1 the height o 1 some bit half-lang tree : 
The hoary morns precede the sunny days, 
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noon-tide 

blaze, [rays 

While thick the gossamour waves wanton in the 
'Twas in that season, when a simple bard, 
Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward ; 
Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, 
By whim inspir'd, or haply prest wi' care ; 
He left his bed, and took his wayward route, 
And down by Simpsofi^s* wheel'd the left about : 
(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate, 
To witness what I after shall narrate ; 
Or whether, rapt in meditation high, 
He wander' d out he knew not where nor why :) 
The drowsy Dungeon- clock* had number'd two, 
And Wallace Tower\ had sworn the fact was true. 
Thetide-swol'n Firth with sullen sounding roar, 
Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the 

shore : 
All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e ; 
The silent moon shone high o'er tower and tree : 
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 
Crept, gently crusting, o'er the glittering stream! 
When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning Bard, 
The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard ; 
Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air. 
8wift as the Gost drives on the wheeling hare; 

* A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end. 

4 The two steeples. J The gos-hawk, or falcon. 



BURNS' POEMS. 35 

Ane on th' Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, 

The ither flutters o'er the rising -piers : 

Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry 'd 

The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr, preside. 

(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, 

And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual fo'k ; 

Fays, spunkies, Kelpies, a 1 , they can explain 

them, 
And ev'n the very deils they brawly ken them.) 
Auld Brig appeared of ancient Pictishrace, 
The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face ; 
He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang, 
Yet teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. 
New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, 
That he, at London, frae ane Adams, got ; 
In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, 
Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. 
The Goth was stalkinground with anxious search, 
Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch ; 
It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e, 
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he ! 
Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, 
He, down the water, gies him this guideen : — 

AULD BRIO. 

I doubt na, frien 1 , yell think ye're nae sheep 
shank, 
Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank, 
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 
Tho' faith that, day, I doubt ye'll never see, 
There'll be, if that date come, I'll wad a boddle. 
Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle. 



NEW BRIO. 

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense 
Tust much about it wi' your scanty sense ; 



36 BURNS' POEMS. 

Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street, 
Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they 

meet, 
Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane an 1 lime, 
Compare wi 1 bonnie Brigs o' modern time ? 
There's men o' taste would tak the Ducat 

stream,* 
Tho' they should cast the very sark an' swim, 
Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the vie\» 
Of sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. 

AULD BRIO. 

Conceited gowk! pufTd up wi' windy pride! 
This monie a year I've stood the flood an' tide ; 
And tho' wi 1 crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 
I'll be a Brig, when ye're a shapeless cairn! 
As yet ye little ken about the matter, 
But twa-three winters will inform you better, 
When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains, 
Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains; 
When from the hills where springs the brawl 

ing Coil, 
Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, 
Or where the Greenock winds his moorland 

course, 
Or haunted Garpali draws his feeble source, 
Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting ihowes, 
In mony a torrent down his sna-broo rowes ; 
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat, 
Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate ; 
And from Gle?ibuck,t down to the Rotto7ikey,% 

* A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig. 

+ The banks of Oarpal Water is one of the few 
places in the West of Scotland, where those fancy- 
scaring beings, known by the name of Ohaists, stitt 
continue pertinaciously to inhabit. 

t The source of the river Ayr. 

i A small landing-place above the large key 



BURNS' POEMS. 37 

Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd, ..ambling sea; 
Then down ye '11 hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! 
And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring 

skies : 
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, 
That Architecture's noble art is lo&t! 

NEW BRIG. 

Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say 
o't! 
The L — d be thankit that we've tint the gate 

o't! ■ " 

Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, 
Hanging with threat'ning jut, like precipices; 
O'er arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, 
Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves: 
Windows and doors, in nameless scuplture 

drest, 
With order, symmetry, or taste, unblest ; 
Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream, — 
The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; 
Forms might be worship' d on the bended knee, 
And still the seco?id dread command be free, 
Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or 

sea. 
Mansions that would disgrace the building taste 
Of any mason, reptile, bird, or beast ; 
Fit only for a doited Monkish race, 
Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace, 
Or cuifs of later times, wha held the notion 
That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion ; 
Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection, 
And soon may they expire, unblest with resur- 
rection ! 

AULD BRIG. 

O ye, my dear-remember'd, ancient yealings, 
Were ye but here to share my wounded feel- 
ings! 



■8 BURNS' POEMS. 

Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie, 
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay ; 
Ye dainty Deacons, and ye douce Ccnveeners, 
To whom our moderns are but causey-clean 

ers; 
Ye godly Coiaicils wha hae blest this town ; 
Ye godly Brethren of the sacred gown, 
Wha meekly gie your hurdies to the smiters; 
A.nd (what would now be strange) ye godly 

Writers: 
A.' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo, 
Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ? 
How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, 
To see each melancholy alteration ; 
And, agonizing, curse the time and place 
When ye begat the base, degen'rate race ! 
Nae langer Rev'rend Men, their country's glory, 
In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid 

story ! 
Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an' douce, 
Meet owre a pint, or in the Council-house ; 
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, 
The herryment and ruin of the country-^ 
Men, three-parts made by Tailors and by Bar- 
bers, 
Wha waste your well-hain'd gear on d — d new 
Brigs and Harbors ! 

NEW BRIG. 

Now haud you there ! for faith ye've said 
enough, 
And muckle mair than ye can mak to through. 
As for your priesthood, I shall say but little, 
Vorbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : 
But under favor o' your langer beard, 
Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spar'd: 
To liken them to your auld-warld squad, 



BURNS' POEMS. 39 

I must needs say, comparisons are odd. 
In Ayr, Wag- wits nae mair can hae a handle 
To mouth "a Citizen," a term o' scandal: 
Nae mair the Council waddles down the street, 
In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; 
Men wha grew wise priggin owre hops an 1 rai- 
sins, 
Or gathered lib'ral views in Bonds and Seisins. 
If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, 
Had shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp, 
And would to Common-sense, for once betray'd 

them. 
Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them, 



What farther clishmaclaver might been said, 
What bloody wars, if Sprites Tiad blood to 

shed, 
No man can tell ; but all before their sight, 
A fairy train appear'd in order bright: 
Adown the glittering stream they featly danc'd ; 
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd : 
They footed o'er the watry glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet: 
While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung, 
And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung. 
O had M' Lauchlan* thairm-inspiring Sage, 
Beeri there to hear this heavenly band engage, 
When thro' his dear Strathspeys they bore with 

Highland rage, 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, 
The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares ; 
How would his Highland lug been nobler fir'd, 
And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch 

inspir'd ! 

* A well known performer of Scottish music on 
the violin. 



40 BURNS' POEMS. 

No guess could tell what instrument appear'd, 
But all the soul of Music's self was heard ; 
Harmonious concert rung in every part, 
While simple melody pour'd moving on the 
heart. 

The Genius of the Stream in front appears, 
A venerable Chief advanc'd in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd— 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound. 
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, 
Sweet Female Beauty, hand in hand with 

Spring ; 
Then, crown'd with fiow'ry hay, came rural 

Joy, 
And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : 
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, 
Led yejlow Autumn wreath'd with nodding 

corn ; 
Then Winter's time-bleach' d locks did hoary 

show, 
By hospitality with cloudless brow. 
Next follow'd Courage with his martial stride, 
From where the Feal wild- woody coverts hide ; 
Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair; 
Learning and Worth in equal measure's trode, 
From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode: 
Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel 

wreath, 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instruments of death ; 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their 

kindling wrath. 



BURNS' POEMS. 41 



THE ORDINATION. 

For sense they little owe to Frugal Heaven — 
To please the Mob they hide the little given. 

1. 

Kilmarnock Wabsters fidge an' claw, 

An' pour your creeshie nations; 
An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, 

Of a' denominations, 
Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a', 

An' there tak up your stations; 
Then affto B-gb—'s in a raw, 

An' pour divine libations 

For joy this day. 

II. 
Curst Common Sense, that imp o' h — 11, 

Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder;* 
But O******* aft made her yell, 

An' R * * * * * sair misca'd her ; 
This day M' ****** * takes the flail, 

And he's the boy will blaud her! 
He'll clap a shangan on her tail, 

An' set the bairns to daub her 

Wi' dirt this day. 

III. 
Mak haste an' turn king David owre, 

An 1 lilt wi' holy clangor ; 
O' double verse come gie us four, 

An' skirl up the Bangor: 
This day the kirk kicks up a stoure, 

Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, 

* Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made oa 
rhe admission of the late Reverend and worthy Mr 
I. w> the Laigh Kirk. 



42 BURNS' POEMS. 

For Heresy is in her pow'r, 
Au' gloriously shall whang her 
Wi' pith this day. 

IV. 
Come, let a proper text be read, 

An, touch it affwi' vigor, 
How graceless Ham* leughat his Dad, 

Which made Canaan a nigger ; 
Or rhinehas^ drove the murdering blade, 

Wi' wh-re-abhorring rigor; 
Or Zipporah,\ the seauldin jade, 

Was like a bluidy tiger 

I' th' inn that day. 

V. 

There, try his mettle on the creed, 

And bind him down wi' caution, 
That Stipend is a carnal weed 

He taks but for the fashion ; 
An gie him o'er the flock, to feed, 

And punish each transgression ; 
Especial, rams that cross the breed, 

Gie them sufficient threshin, 

Spare them nae day. 

VI. 

Now auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, 

And toss thy horns m 1 canty ; 
Nae mair thou' It rowte out-owre the dale, 

Because thy pasture's scanty; 
For lapfu's large o 1 gospel kail 

Shall fill thy crib in plenty, 
An' runts o' grace the pick an' wale 

No gi'en by way o' dainty, 
But ilka day. 

• Gen. ix.22. \ Num. xxv. 8. $ Exod. i» » 



BURNS' POEMS. 43 

VI I. 

Nae mair by BaheVs streams we'll weep, 

To think upon our Zion ; 
And hing our fiddles up to sleep, 

Like baby-clouts a-dryin : 
Come, screw the pegs wi' tunefu 1 cheep, 

And o'er the thairms be tryin; 
Oh, rare ! to see our elbucks weep, 

An' a' like lamb-tails rlyin 

Fu' fast this day ! 

VIII. 
Lang Patronage, wl' rod o' aim, 

Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin, 
As lately F-nw-ck sair forfairn, 

Has proven to its ruin : 
Our Patron, honest man ! Glencairn, 

He saw mischief was brewin ; 
And like a godly elect bairn, 

He's wal'd us out a true ane, 

And sound this day. 

IX. 

Now R******* harangue nae mair, 

But steek your gab forever: 
Or try the wicked town of A * * , 

For there they'll think you clever, 
Or, nae reflection on your lear, 

Ye may commence a Shaver; 
Or to the N-th-rt-n repair, 

And turn a Carpet-weaver 

AfT-hand this day. 

X. 

M * * * * * and you were just a match, 
We never had sic twa drones : 

AuM Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch. 
Just like a winkin baudrons ; 



44 BURNS" POEMS 

And ay' he catch 'd the tither wretch, 
To fry them in his caudrons ; 

But now his honor maun detach, 
Wi 1 a' his brimstone squadrons. 
Fast, fast this day. 

XI. 

See, auld Orthodoxy's faes, 

She's swingein thro' the city: 
Hark, how the rune tail'd cat 6he plays — 

I vow it's unco "^etty : 
There, Learning, with his Greekish face, • 

Grunts out some Latin «*ittv ; 
And Common Sense is ga_»n «he says, 

To mak to Jamie Beat tie 

Her 'plaint this day. 

XII. 

But there's Mortality himsel, 

Embracing all opinions; 
Hear, how he gies the tither yell, 

Between his twa companions; 
See, how she peels the skin an' fell, 

As ane were peelin onions ! 
Now there — they're packed aff to hell, 

And banish'd our dominions, 

Henceforth this day. 

XIII. 

O happy day! rejoice, rejoice ! 

Come bouse about the porter ! 

Morality's demure decoys 

Shall here nae mair find quarter : 
M , ****** ^ R ***** are the boys 

That Heresy can torture ; 
They'll gie her on a rape and hoyse, 
And cow her measure shorter 

By th' head some day. 



BURNS' POEMS. 45 

XIV. 
Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, 

And here's, for a conclusion, 
To every New Light* mother's son, 

From this time forth, Confusion ; 
If mair they deave us with their din, 

Or Patronage intrusion, 
We'll light a spunk, and, ev'ry skin, 

We'll rin them aft in fusion 

Like oil, some day. 



THE CALF. 

To the Rev. Mr. . 

On his text — Malachi, ch. iv., ver. 2: "Ard tney 
shall go forth, and grow up, like calves of the stall." 

Right, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true, 

Though Heretics may laugh; 
For instance ; there's yoursel just now, 

God knows, an unco Calf! 

And should some Patron be so kind, 

As bless you wi 1 a kirk, 
I doubt na. Sir, but then we'll find, 

Ye're still as great a Stirk. 

But if the Lover's raptur'd hour 

Shall ever be your lot, 
Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly Power, 

You e'er should be a Stot ! 

* JSTew Light is a cant phrase in the West of Scot 
land, for those religious opinions which Di Taylor 
of Norwich, has defended so strenuously. 



46 BURNS' POEMS. ' 

Tho\ when some kind connubial Dear. 

Your but-and-ben adorns, 
The like has been that you may wear 

A noble head of horns. 

And in your lug, most reverend James, 
To hear you roar and rowte, 

Few men o' sense will doubt your claims 
To rank amang the nowte. 

And when ye're number 'd wi 1 the dead, 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head — 

" Here lies a famous Bullock /" 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 

O Prince! O Chief of many throned Powers, 
That led th' embattled Seraphim to war. — Milt*. 

O thou ! whatever title suit thee, 
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha m yon cavern grim an 1 sootie, 

Clos'd under hatches, 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie, 

To scaud poor wretches. 

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, 
An' let poor damned bodies be ; 
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, 
E 1 en to a deil, 
To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, 
An' hear us squeal ! 

Great is thy pow'r, an 1 great thy fame ; 
Far kend and noted is thy name ; 



BURNS 1 POEMS 4 

An 1 tho 1 yon lowing heugh's thy hame, 
Thou travels far; 

An' faith ! thou's heither lag nor lame, 
Nor blate nor scaur. 

Whyles, raging like a roarin lion, 
For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin ; 
Whyles on the strong- wing'd tempest flyin, 

r I irling the kirks ; 
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin, 

Unseen thou lurks. 

I've heard my reverend Grannie say, 
In lanely glens ye like to stray ; 
Or where auld-ruin'd castles, gray, 

Nod to the moon, 
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, 

Wi' eldritch croon. 

When twilight did my Grannie summon 
To say her prayers, douse, honest woman, 
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummiri, 

Wi' eerie drone ; 
Or, rustlin, thro 1 the boortrees comin, 

Wi' heavy groan. 

Ae dreary, windy, winter night, 
The stars shot down wi' sklentin light, 
Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright, 

Ayont the lough ; 
Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight, 
Wi' waving sugh. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake, 
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, 
When wi' an eldritch, stour, quaick — quaick- 

Amang the springs, 
Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake, 

On whistling wings. 



48 BURNS 1 P0EM3. 

Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, 
Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags 
They skim the muirs, an' dizzy crags, 

Wi' wicked speed; 
And in kirk yards renew their leagues, 

Owrehowkit dead. 

Thence kintra wives, wi' toil an' pain, 
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain; 
For, oh! the yellow treasure's ta'en 

By witching skill ; 
An' dawtit, twal-pint Havikie''s gaen 

As yell's the Bill. 
Thence mystic knots mak great abuse, 
On young Guidman, fond, keen, an' crouse 
When the best wark-lume i' the house, 

By cantrip wit, 
Is instant made no worse a louse, 

Just at the bit. 
When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord. 
An' float the jinglin icy-boord, 
Then Water-kelpies haunt the foord, 

By your direction, 
An 1 nighted Trav'lers are allur'd 

To their destruction 
An 1 aft your moss-traversing Spunkiea 
Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is : 
The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys 

Delude his eyes, 
Till in some miry slough he sunk is, 

Ne'er mair to rise. 
When Masoris" 1 mystic word an' grip 
In storms an 1 tempests raise you up, 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop 

Or, strange to tell! 
The youngest Brother ye wad whip 

AfF straught to hell \ 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 49 

Lang syne, in Eden^s bonnie yard, 
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, 
An' all the soul of love they shar'd, 

The raptur'd hour, 
Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird, 

In shady bow'r : 
Then you, ye auld, snic-drawing dog ! 
Ye came to Paradise incog, 
An 1 play'd on man a cursed brogue, 

(Black be your fa'!) 
An' gied the infant warld a shog, 

'Maist ruin'd a'. 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
VVi' reekit duds, an 1 reestit gizz, 
Ye did present your smoutie phiz, 

'Mang better fo'k, 
An' sklented on the man of Uz 

Your spitefu' joke ? 

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, 
An' brak him out o' house an 1 hall, 
While scabs an' blotches did him gall, 

Wi 1 bitter claw, 
An' low'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked Scawl, 

Was warst ava? 

But a' your doings to rehearse, 
Your wily snares an'' fechtin fierce, 
Sin' that day Michael* did you pierce, 

Down to this time, 
Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse, 

In prose or rhyme. 

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin 
A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin, 
Some luckless hour will send him linkin, 
To your black pit; 

., • Vide Milton, Book VI. 

H 4 



50 BURNS' POEMS. 

But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin, 

An' cheat you yet. 

But, fare-you-weel, auld Nickie-ben ! 
O wad ye tak a thought an' men' ! 
Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — 

Still hae a slake — 
I'm vvae to think upo' yon den, 

Ev'n for your sake 



THE 

DEATH AND DYING WORDS 

OF 

POOR MAILIE; 

THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. 

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE. 

As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, 
Were ae day nibbling on the tether, 
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, 
An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch. 
There, groaning, dying, she did lie, 
When Hughoc* he cam doytin by. 

Wi' glowrin een, an' lifted han's, 
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's ; 
He saw her days were near-hand ended, 
But, waes my heart ! he could na mend it' 
He gaped wide, but naething spak ! 
At length Poor Mailie silence brak. 

" O thou, whase lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my woefu' case ! 

*A neebor herd-callan 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 51 

My dying words attentive hear, 
An' bear them to my master dear. 

" Tell him. if e'er again he keep, 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
O, bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair ! 
But ca' them out to park or hill, 
An' let them wander at their will; 
So may his flock increase, an 1 grow 
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo' ! 

" Tell him, he was a master kin', 
A.n' ay was guid to me and mine ; 
A.n' now my dying charge I gie him, 
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him. 

" O, bid him save their harmless lives, 
Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives ! 
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, 
Till they be fit to fend themsel : 
An 1 tent them duly, e'en an 1 morn, 
W teats o' hay an 1 rips o' corn. 

" An 1 may they never learn the gaets 
Of ither vile wanrestfu' pets ! 
To slink thro' slaps, an' .eave an 1 steal, 
At stacks o 1 pease, or stocks o' kail. 
So may they, like their great forbears, 
For monie a year come thro 1 the shears : 
So wives will gie them bits o' bread. 
An' bairns greet for them when they're dead 

" My poor toov-lamb, my son an' heir, 
O, bid him breed him up wi' care ! 
An', if he live to be a beast, 
To pit some havins in his breast ! 
An' warn him, what I winna name, 
To stay content wi 1 yowes at hame ; 
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots, 



52 BURNS' POEMS. 

" An, niest my yowie, silly thing, 
Gude keep thee frae a tether string ! 
O, may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop; 
But ay keep mind to moop an' mell, 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel ! 

" And now, my bairns, wi 1 my last breath 
I lea'e my blessin wi* you baith : 
An' when you think upo' your Mither, 
Mind to be kin' to ane anither. 

" Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail, 
To tell my master a' my tale ; 
An' bid him burn this cursed tether, 
An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blather." 

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, 
An' clos'd her e'en amang the dead. 



POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. 

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose , 
Our bardie's fate is at a close, 

Past a 1 remead ; 
The last sad cape-stane of his woes; 

Poor Mailie's dead ! 
It's no the loss o' warl's gear, 
That could sae bitter draw the tear, 
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed 
He's lost a friend and neebor dear. 

In Mailie dead. 
Thro' a' the town she trotted by him ; 
A lang half-mile she could descry him : 



BURNS' POEMS. 59 

Wi 1 kindly bleat, when she did spy him, 
She ran wi' speed: 

A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him, 
Than Mailie dead. 

I wat she was a sheep o' sense, 
An' could behave hersel wi' mense : 
I'U eay't, she never brak a fence, 

Thro 1 thievish greed. 
Our bardie, Ianely, keeps the spence 

Sin' Maine's dead. 

Or, if he wanders up the howe, 
Her living image in her ycwe, 
Conies bleating to him, owre the knowe, 

For bits o' bread ; 
An 1 down the briny pearls rowe 

For Mailie dead. 

She was nae get o' moorland tips, 
Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips ; 
For her forbears were brought in ship 

Frae yont the Tweed 
A bonnier Jleesh ne'er cross'd the clips 

Than Mailie dead. 

Wae worth the man wha first did shape 
That vile, wanchancie thing — a rape ' 
It maks guid fellows grin an' gape, 

Wi' chokin dread ; 
An* Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, 

For Mailie dead. 

O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon ! 
An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune ! 
Come, Join the melacicholious croon 

0' Robin's reed ' 
His heart will never get aboon ! 

His Mailie dead. 



54 BURNS' POEMS. 

TO J. S**** 



Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul t 
Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society l 
I owe thee much. Blaib 



Di'.ar S****, the sleest paukie thief. 
That e'er attempted stealth or rief, 
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef 

Owre human hearts: 
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 

Against your arts. 

For me, I swear by sun an' moon, 
And ev'ry star that blinks aboon, 
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon 

Just gaun to see you ; 
And ev'ry ither pair that's done, 

Mair ta'en I'm wi' you. 

That auld capricious carlin, Nature, 
To mak amends for scrimpit stature, 
She's turn'd you afF, a human creature 

On her frst plan, 
And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature, 

She's wrote the Man. 

Just now I've ta'en the fit o' rhyme, 
My barmie noddle's working prime, 
My fancy yerkit up sublime 

Wi' hasty summon : 
Hae ye a leisure- moment's time 

To hear what's comin f 

Some rhyme, a neebor's name to lash; 
Some rnyme (vain thought !) for needfu' cash, 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 55 

Some rhyme to court the kintra clash, 
An 1 raise a din ; 

For me, an aim I never fash; 

I rhyme for fun. 

The star that rules my luckless lot, 
Has fated me the russet coat, 
An 1 damn'd my fortune to the groat ; 

But in requit, 
Has bless'd me wi' a random shot 

0' kintra wit. 
This while my notion's ta'en a sklent, 
To try my fate in guid black prent ; 
But still the mair I'm that way bent, 

Something cries, " Hoolie : 
I red you, honest man, tak tent ! 

Ye' 11 shaw your folly. 
44 There's ither poets, much your betters, 
Far seen in Greek, deep men o 1 letters, 
Ilae thought they had ensur'd their debtors, 

A' future ages ; 
Now moths deform in shapeless tetters, 

The unknown pages." 
Then fareweel hopes o 1 laurel-boughs, 
To garland my poetic brows ! 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 

Are whistling thrang, 
An 1 teach the lanely heights an' howes 

My rustic sang. 

I'll wander on, with tentless heed, 

How never-halting moments speed, 

Till fate shall snap the brittle thread, 

Then, all unknown, 
I'll lay me with the inglorious dead, 

Forgot and gone. 
But why o' death begin a tale ? 
Just now we're Irving sound and hale, 



56 BURNS' POEMS. 

Then top and maintop crowd the sail, 

Heave care o'er side ! 

And large, before enjoyment's gale, 
Let's tak the tide. 

This life, sae tar's I understand, 
Is a' enchanted, fairy land, 
Where pleasure is the magic wand, 

That wielded right, 
Maks hours, like minutes, hand in hand, 

Dance by fu' light. 

The magic- wand then let us wield ; 
For ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd, 
See crazy, weary, joyless eild, 

Wi' wrinkl'd face, 
Comes hostin, hirphn owre the field, 

Wi 1 creepin pace. 

When ance life s day draws near the gloamio 
Then fareweel vacant, careless roamin ; 
An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin, 

An' social noise ; 
An' fareweel, dear, deluding woman, 

The joy of joys ! 

Life ! how pleasant in thy morning, 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! 
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning, 

We frisk away, 
Like school-boys, at th' expected warning 

To joy and play. 

We wander there, we wander here, 
We eye the rose upon the brier, 
Unmindful that the thorn is near, 

Among the leaves; 
And though the puny wound appear, 

Short while it grieves. 



BURNS' POEMS. 57 

Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot, 
For which they never toil'd nor swat ; 
They drink the sweet, and eat the fat, 
But care or pain ; 
And, haply, eye the barren hut 

With high disdain. 

With steady aim, some fortune chase ; 
Keen Hope does every sinew brace ; 
Thro' fair, thro 1 foul, they urge the race, 

And seize the prey : 
Then cannie, in some cozie place, 

They close the day. 
And others, like your humble servan', 
Poor wights ! nae rules nor roads observin , 
To right or left, eternal swervin, 

They zig-zag on 
Till curst with age, obscure an' starvin, 

They aften groan. 
Alas ! what bitter toil an' straining — 
But truce with peevish, poor complaining' 
Is fortune's fickle Luna waning ? 

E'en let her gang ! 
Beneath what light she has remaining, 

Let's sing our sang. 
My pen I here fling to the door, 
And kneel, "Ye Powers !"and warm implore, 
" Tho' I should wander terra o'er, 

In all her climes, . 
Grant me but this, I ask no more, 

Ay rowth o' rhymes 
" Gie dre'jping roasts to kintra lairds, 
Till icicles hing frae their beards ; 
Gie fine b.aw claesto fine life-guards. 

And maids of honor, 
And yill an' whisky gie to cairds, 

_ Until they sconner. 



58 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

•■ A title, Dempster merits it ; 
A garter gie to WilliePitl ; 
Gie wealth to some be-Iedger'd cit, 

In cent, percent.; 
But gie me real, sterling wit, 

And I'm content. 

" While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale 
1*11 sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
Be't watcr-brose, or muslin-kail, 

Wi' cheerfu 1 face, 
As lang's the muses dinna fail 

To say the grace. 1 ' 

An anxious e'e I never throws 
Behint my lug, or by my nose ; 
I jouk beneath misfortune's blows 

As'weel's I may : 
Sworn foe to sorrow, care and prose, 
I rhyme away. 

O ye douce folk, that live by rule, 
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, 
Compar'd wi' you — O fool ! fool ! fool 

How much unlike ! 
Your hearts are just a standing pool, 

Your lives, a dyke ' 

Hae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces 
In your unletter'd, nameless faces ! 
In arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray, 
But, gravisgimo, solemn basses 

Ye hum away. 

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise , 
Nae ferly tho 1 ye do despise 
The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, 
The rattlin squad : 
I see you upward cast your eyes — 

— Ye ken the road 



BURNS' POEMS. 59 

Whilst I— but I shall haud me there— 
Wi* you I'll scarce gang ony where — 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, 

..■; ■ But quat my sang, 
Content wi' you to mak a pair, 

Whare'er I gang. 



A DREAM. 



Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with 

reason ; 
But surely dreams were ne'er Indicted treason. 



[On reading, in the public papers, the Laureates Ode, 
with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author 
was no sooner dropped asleep, than he imagined 
himself to the birth-day levee ; and in his dreaming 
fancy made the following Address.] 

I. 

Guid-morning to your Majesty ! 

May heav'n augment your blisses. 
On every new birth-day ye see, 

A humble poet wishes ! 
My hardship here, at your levee, 

On sic a day as this is, 
Is sure an uncouth sight to see, 

Amang the birth-day dresses 

Sae fine this day. 
II. 
I see ye're complimented thrang, 

By monie a lord and lady ; 
" God save the king !" *s a cuckoo sang 

That's unco easy said ay ; 



60 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

The poets, too, a venal gang. 

Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready, 
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, 

But ay unerring steady, 

On sic a day. 

III. 

For me ! before a monarch's fac, 

Ev'n there I winna flatter ; 
For neither pension, post, nor place, 

Am I your humble debtor : 
So, nae reflection on your grace, 

Your kingship to bespatter ; 
There's monie waur been o' the race, 

And aiblins ane been better 

Than you this day 

IV 

'Tis very true my sov'reign king, 

My skill may weel be doubted : 
But facts are chiels that winna ding, 

An' downa be disputed : 
Your royal nest, beneath your wing, 

Is e'en right reft an 1 clouted, 
And now the third part of the string, 

An' less, will gang about it 

Than did ae day. 

V. 

Far be't frae me that I aspire * 

To blame your legislation, 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, 

To rule this mighty nation ! 
But, faith ! I muckle doubt, my Sire, 

Ye've trusted ministration 
To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, 

Wad better fill'd their station 

Than courts yon day. 



BURNS' POEMS. 61 

VI. 

And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, 

Her broken shins to plaster 
Your sair taxation does her fleece, 

Till she has scarce a tester ; 
For me, thank God, my life's a lease, 

Nae bargain wearing faster, 
Or, faith ! I fear, that wi' the geese, 

I shortly boost to pasture 

I 1 the craft some day. 

VII. 
I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 

When taxes he enlarges, 
(An 1 WilVs a true guid fallow's get, 

A name not envy spairges,) 
That he intends to pay your debt, 

An' lessen a 1 your charges ; 
But, G-d-sake ! let nae saving-Jit 

Abridge your bonnie barges 

An 1 boats this day. 

VIII. 

Adieu, my Liege ! may freedom geek 

Beneath your high protection ; 
An' may ye rax corruption's neck, 

And gie her for dissection ! 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, 

In loyal, true affection, 
To pay your Queen, with due respect, 

My fealty an' subjection 

This great birth-day. 

IX. 

Hail, Majesty Most Excellent ! 

While nobles strive to please ye, 
Will ye accept a compliment 

A simple poet gies ye ? 



62 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav'n has Iem 
Still higher may they heeze ye 

In bliss, till fate some day is sent, 
Forever to release ye 

Frae care that day. 

X. 

For you, young potentate o' W , 

I tell your Highness fairly, 
Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sail* 

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely: 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails. 

An' curse your folly sairly, 
That e'er you brak Diaiid's pales, 

Or, rattl'd dice wi' Charlie, 

By night or day. 

XL 

Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known 

To make a noble aiver ; 
So, ye may doucely fill a throne, 

For a' their clish-ma-claver : 
There, him* at Agincourt wha shone, 

Few better were or braver : 
And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,i 

He was an unco shaver 

For monie a day. 

XII. 
For you, right rev'rend O 

Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, 
Although a ribbon at your lug 

Wad been a dress completer : 
As ye disown yon paughty dog 

That bears the keys of Peter, 

• King Henry V. 

t £ir John Falstaff: vide Shakspeare. 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 63 

Then, swith ! an 1 get a wife to hug, 
Or, trouth! ye'll stain the mitre 
Some luckless day. 

XIII. 

Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, 

Ye've lately come athwart her ; 
A glorious galley, t stem an' stern, 

Well rigg'd for Venus' 1 barter * 
But first hang out, that she'll discern 

Your hymenial charter, 
Then heave aboard your grapple aim, 

An 1 , large upo' her quarter, 

Come full that day. 

XIV. 

Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a 1 , 

Ye royal lasses dainty ; 
Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw, 

An' gie you lads a-plenty : 
But sneer nae British boys awa\ 

For kings are unco scant ay ; 
An r German gentles are but sma', 

They're better just than want ay 
On onie day. 

XV. 

God bless you a 1 ! consider now, 

Ye're unco muckle dautet ; 
But, ere the course o 1 life be thro', 

It may be bitter sautet : 
An' I hae seen their coggie fou, 

That yet hae tarrow't at it ; 
But or the day was done, I trow, 

The laggen they hae clautet 

Fu' clean that day. 

I Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain 
royal sailor's amour . 



64 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

THE VISION. 
DUAN FIRST.* 

The sun had clos'd the winter day 
The curlers quat their roaring play, 
An' hunger' d maukin ta'en her way 

To kail-yards green, 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray 

Whare she has been. 
The thresher's weary • fiingin-tree 
The lee-lang day had tired me ; 
And when the day had clos'd his e'e, 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, 
I gaed to rest. 
There, lanely, by the ingle cheek, 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek, 
That fill'd wi' hoast-provoking smeek, 

The auld clay biggin, 
An' heard the restless rations squeak 
About the riggin. 
All in this mottie, misty clime, 
1 backward mus'd on wasted time, 
How I had spent my youthfu' prime, 

An' done nae-thing, 
But stringin blethers up in rhyme, 
For fools to sing. 

Had I to guid advice but harkit, 
I might, by this, hae led a market, 
Or strutted in a bank an' clarkit 

My cash account, 
While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit, 

Is a 1 th' amount. 

* Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different dirt» 
sions of a digressive poem. See bis Cath-Loda, v«4 
ii. of M'Pberson'a translation. 



BURNS' POEMS. 6 

I started, rriutt'ring, blockhead! coof! 
And heav'd on high my waukit loof, 
To swear by a' yon starry roof, 

Or some rash aith, 
That I, henceforth, would be rhyme proof 
Till my last breath. 
When click ! the string the snick did draw 
And jee ! the door gaed to the wa' ; 
An' by my ingle- lowe I saw, 

Now bleezin bright, 
A tight, outlandish Hizzie, braw, 

Come full in sight. 
Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht; 
The infant aith, half-form 1 d, was crusht; 
1 glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht 

In some wild glen ; 
When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht, 
And stepped ben. 
Green, slender, leaf-clad hollv -boughs 
Were twisted, gracefu', round Tier brows; 
I took her for some Scottish Muse, 

By that same token ; 
An' come to stop those reckless vows, 

Wou'd soon been broken. 
A " hair-brain'd, sentimental trace,'' 
Was strongly marked in her face ; 
A wildly-witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upon her; 
Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen with honor. 
Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen, 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen; 
And such a leg! my bonnie Jean 

Could only peer it; 
Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, 

Nane else came near it. 



66 BURNS' P(,EMS. 

Her mantle large, of greenish hue, 
My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 
Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling threw 

A lustre grand ; 
And seem'd, to my astonished view, 

A well known land. 

Here, rivers in the sea were lost; 
There, mountains in the skies were tost ; 
Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast. 

With surging foam ; 
There, distant shone Art's lofty boast, 
The lordly dome. 

Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch 'd floods ; 
There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds ; 
Auld hermit Ayr staw thro 1 his woods, 

On to the shore ; 
And many a lesser torrent scuds, 

With seeming roar. 

Low, in a sandy valley spread, 
An ancient borough rear'd her head, 
Still, as in Scottish story read, 

She boasts a race, 
To ev'ry nobler virtue bred, 

And polish'd grace. 

By stately tow'r or palace fair, 
Or ruins pendent in the air, 
Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 

I could discern ; 
Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare. 

With feature stem. 

My heart did glowing transport feel, 
To see a race* heroic wheel, 
And brandish round the deep-dy'd stee' 
In sturdy blows ; 

•The Wallace*. 



BURN;?' POEMS. 67 

While back-recoiling seem'd to reel 

Their stubborn foes. 

His country's savior,* mark him well ! 
Bold Richardtori's^ heroic swell ; 
The chief on SarkX who glorious fell, 

In high command; 
And he whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a scepter'd Pictish shaded 
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
I mark'd a martial race, portray 'd 

In colors strong ; 
Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd 

They strode along. 

Thro 1 many a wild, romantic grove.ll 
Near many a hermit-fancy'd cove, 
(Fit haunts for friendship or for love) 
In musing mood, 
An aged judge, I saw him rove, 

Dispensing good. 

With deep-struck, reverential awe^f 
The learned sire and son I saw, 

* William Wallace. 

f Adam Wallace, of Richardton, cousin to the im- 
mortal preserver of Scottish independence. 

X Wallace, Laird of Craigie, who was second in 
command, under Douglas earl of Ormond, at the fa- 
mous battle on the hanks of Sark, fought anno 1 148. 
That glorious victory was ■principally owing to the 
judicious conduct and intrepid valor of the gallant 
Laird of Craigie, who died of his wounds after the 
action. 

J Coilus, king of the Picts, from whom the district 
of Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradi- 
tion says, near the family-seat of the Montgonviriei 
of Coil's held, whpre his burial place is still shown. 

|| Barskimming the seat of the Lord Justice-ClHrk. 

•fl Catrine, the seat of the late doctor and present 
Professor Stewart. 



68 BURNS' POEMS. 

To Nature's God and Nature's law 

They gave their lore, 

This, all its source and end to draw, 
That, to adore. 

Brydone's brave ward* I well could *-»f, 
Beneath old, Scotia's smiling eye ; 
Who caird on fame, low standing by, 

To hand him on, 
Where many a patriot name on high, 

A nd hero shone. 

DUAN SECOND. 

With musmg-deep, astonish'd stare, 
I view'd the heavenly-seeming fair ; 
A whispering throb did witness bear, 

Of kindred sweet, 
When with an elder sister's air 

She did me greet. 

" All hail ! my own inspired bard ! 
In me thy native muse regard ! 
Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 

Thus poorly low ! 
I come to give thee such reward 

As we bestow. 

" Know, the great genius of this land 
Has many a light aerial band, 
Who, all beneath his high command, 

Harmoniously, 
As arts or arms they understand, 

Their labors ply. 

" They Scotia's race among them snare . 
Some fire the soldier on to dare ; 
Some rouse the patriot up to bare 

Corruption's hear\ : 
• Colonel Fullarton. 



BURNS' POEMS. 69 

Some teach the bard, a darling care, 
The tuneful art. 

11 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, 
They, ardent, kindling spirits pour; 
Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar, 

They, sightless, stand, 
To mend the honest patriot-lore, 

And grace the hand. 

"And when the bard, or hoary sage, 
Charm - or instruct the future age, 
They bind the wild poetic rage 

In energy, 
Or point the inconclusive page 

Full on the eye. 

"Hence Fullarton, the brave and young; 
Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue ; 
Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung 

His ' Minstrel lays;' 
Or tore, with noble ardor stung, 

The sceptic's bays. 

' ' To lower orders are assign'd 
The humbler ranks of human-kind, 
The rustic Bard, the lab'ring Hind, 

The Artisan; 
All choose, as various they're inclin'd, 

The various man. 

" When yellow waves the heavy grain, 
The threat'ning storm some strongly, rein 
Some teach to meliorate the plain 

With tillage-skill; 
And some instruct the shepherd-train, 

Blythe o'er the hill. 

" Some hint the lover's harmless wile , 
Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 



70 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil, 
For humble gains, 

And make his cottage-scenes beguile 

His cares and pains. 

" Suffle, oounded to a district -space, 
Explore at large man's infant race, 
To mark the embryotic trace 

Of rustic Bard ; 
And careful note each op'ning grace, 

A guide and guard. 

11 Of these am I — Coila my name ; 
And this district as mine I claim, 
Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, 

Held ruling pow'r ; 
I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame, 

Thy natal hour. 

" With future hope, I oft would gaze, 
Fond, on thy little early ways, 
Thy rudely caroll'd chiming phrase, 

In uncouth rhymes, 
Fir'd at the simple, artless lays 

Of other times. 

" I saw thee seek the sounding shore, 
Delighted with the dashing roar; 
Or when the north his fleecy store 

Drove thro' the sky, 
I saw grim nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 

** Or, when the deep green-mantl'd eartr 
Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth. 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In ev'ry grove, 
I saw thee eye the gen'ral mirth 

With boundless love. 



BURNS' POEMS. ~1 

" VVhen ripen'd fields, and azure skies, 
C.ill'd forth the reaper's rustling noise, 
i >a\v thee leave their evening joys, 

And lonely stalk, 
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 

In pensive walk. 

" When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, 
Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, 
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 
Th' ador'd Name, 
I taught thee how to pour in song, 

To soothe thy flame. 

" I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way, 
Misled by fancy's meteor ray, 

By passion driven; 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from heaven. 

"I taught thy manners-painting strains, 
The loves, the ways of simple swains, 
Till now, o'er all my wide domains 

Thy fame extends ; 
And some, the pride of Coda's plains, 
Become my friends. 

" Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, 
To paint with Thompso?i' l s *landscape-glow ; 
Or wake the bosom-melting throe, 

With Shenstone's art , 
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 
Warm on the heart. 

" Yet all beneath th' unrivalPd rose, 
The lowly daisy sweetly blows; 
Tho' large the forest's monarch throws 
His army shade, 



IV BURNS' POEMS. 

Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, 
Adown the glade. 

" Then never murmur nor repine ; 
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine* 
And trust me, not PotosVs mine, 

Nor kings 1 regard, 
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 
A rustic Bard. 

'■ To give my counsels all in one, 
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; 
Preserve the Dignity of Man, 

With soul erect; 
And trust, the Universal Plan 

Will all protect. 

" And wear thou this 2 - 1 — she solemn said, 
And bound the Holly round my head : 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red, 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 

In light away. 



ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID; 

OR, 
THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS 

My son, these maxims make a rule, 

And lump them ay thegither ; 
The Rigid Righteous is a fool, 

The Rigid Wise anither : 
The cleanest corn that e'er was dight 

May hae some pyles o' caff in ; 
So ne'er a fellow-creature slight 

For random fits o' daffin. 

Solomon.— Eccles. ch. vii. ver. 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 73 

I. 

O ye wha are sae guid yoursel, 

Sae pious and sae holy, 

Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 

Your neebor's faults and folly ! 
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, 
. Supply'd wi' store o water, 
The heapet happers ebbing still, 

And still the clap plays clatter. 

II. 
Hear me, ye venerable core. 

As counsel for poor mortals, 
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door 

For glaikit Folly's portals; 
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, 

Would here propone defences, 
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, 

Their failings and mischances. 

III. 

Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd, 

And shudder at the niffer, 
But cast a moment's fair regard, 

What makes the mighty differ ; 
Discount what scant occasion gave, 

That purity ye pride in, 
And (whar's aft mair than a' the lave> 

Your better art o' hiding. 

IV. 

Think, when your castigated pulse, 

Gies now and then a wallop, 
What ragings must his veins convulse. 

That still eternal gollop: 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, 

Right on ye scud your sea-way ; 



74 BURNS' POEMS. 

But in the teeth o' baith to sail, 
It makes an unco leeway. 

V. 

See social life and glee sit down, 

All joyous and unthinking, 
Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grown 

Debauchery and drinking: 
Or, would they stay to calculate 

Th' eternal consequences ; 
Or your more dreaded hell to taste, 

D-mnation of expenses! 

VI. 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, 

Ty'd up in godly laces, 
Before ye gie poor frailty nan.es, 

Suppose a change o' cases ; 
A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, 

A treacherous inclination — 
But, let me whisper i' your lug, 

Ye're aiblins nae temptation. 

VII. 

Then gently scan your brother man, 

Still gentler sister woman : 
Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang , 

To step aside is h'»man : 
One point must still be greatly dark, 

The moving why they do it : 
And just as lamely can ye mark, 

How far perhaps they rue it. 

VIII. 
Who made the heart, His He alone 

Decidedly can try us ; 
He knows each chord — its various tone, 

Each spring, its various bias: 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 75 

Then at the balance let^s be mute, 

We never can adjust it ; 
What '8 done we partly may compute, 

But know not what's resisted. 



TAM SAMSON'S* ELEGY. 

Aji honest man's the noblest work of God.— Por*. 

Has auld K********* seen the Deil ? 
Or great M' *******+ thrawn his heel ! 
Or K* ***** * again crown weel, t 

To preach an' read, 
41 Na, waur than a!" cries ilka chiel, 

Tarn Samson's dead! 

£••«*•••#• ] ang m ay grunt an 1 grand, 
An 1 sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane, 
An' cleed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean, 

In mourning weed; 
To death, she's dearly paid the kane, 

Tarn Samson's dead! 

The brethren of the mystic level 
May hing their head in woefu' bevel, 

* When this worthy old sportsman went out last 
muir-fowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossi 
an's phrase, "the last of his fields ;" and expressed 
an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. 
On this hint the author composed his elegy and epi- 
taph. 

t A certain preacher, a great favorite with the 
million. Vide the Ordination, stanza II. 

% Another preacher, an equal favorite with the 
few who was at that time ailing. For him, see also 
the Ordination stanza IX. 



76 BURNS' POEMS. 

While by their nose the teixrs will revel. 

Like ony bead ; 
Death's gien the lodge an unco devel : 

Tain Samson's dead ! 

When winter muffles up his cloak, 
And binds the mire like a rock; 
When to the loughs the curlers flock, 

Wi' gleesome speed, 
Wha will they station at the cock ? 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

He was the king o' a' the core, 
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, 
Or up the rink like Jehu roar 

In time of need , 
But now he lags on death's hog-score, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Now safe the stately sawmont sail, 
And trouts bedropp'd wi 1 crimson hail, 
And eels weel kenn'd for souple tail, 

And geds for greed, 
Since dark in death's jish-creel we wail 

1 am Samson's dead ! 

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a 1 ; 
Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw ; 
Ye maukins, cock your ftM fu' braw, 
Withouten dread ; 
Your mortal fae is now awa', 

Tam Samson's dead. 

That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd, 
Saw him in shootin graith adorn'd, 
While pointers round impatient burn'd, 

Frae couples freed ; 
But, oth ! he gaed and ne'er return'd ! 

Tam Samson's dead. 



BURNS' POEMS. 77 

In vain auld age his body batters ; 
Id vain the gout his ancles fetters ; 
In vain the burns came down like waters, 

An acre braid ! 
Nowev'ry auld wife, greetin, clatters, 

Tarn Samson's dead . 
Owre many a weary hag he limpit, 
An' ay the tither shot he thumpit, 
Till coward death behint him jumpit, 
Wi 1 deadly feide ; 
Now he proclaims, wi' tout or trumpit, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 
When at his heart he felt the dagger, 
He reel'd his wonted bottle- swagger, 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi' weel aim'd heed ; 
" L — d, five !" he cry'd, an 1 owre did stagger; 
Tarn Samson's de^d! 
Ilk hoary hunter mourn 'd a brither ; 
ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father; 
Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather, 

Marks out his head, 
VVhare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, 
Tarn Savisori's dead ! 
There low he lies, in lasting rest ; 
Perhaps upon his mould' ring breast 
Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest, 

To hatch an' breed ; 
Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest ! 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 
When August winds the heather wave, 
And sportsmen wander by yon grave. 
Three volleys let his mem'ry crave 

O' pouther an' lead, 
Till Echo answer frae her cave, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 



78 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be ! 
Is th' wish o' monie mair than me ; 
He had twa faults, or may be three, 

Yet what remead ? 
Ae social, honest man want we : 

Tarn Samson's dead ' 



THE EPITAPH. 

Tam Samson's wcel- worn clay here lies, 
Ye canting zealots, spare him ! 

If honest worth in heaven rise, 
Ye'll mend ere ye win near him. 

PER CONTRA. 

Go, fame, an' canter like a filly 
Thro' a 1 the streets an 1 neuks o' Killie.* 
Tell ev'ry social, honest billie 

To cease his grievin, 
For yet, unskaith-dby death's gleg gullie, 
Tam Samson's livin. 



HALLOWEEN. f 

The following Poem will, by many readers, be well 
enough understood ; but for the sake of those who 

*Killie is a phrase the country-folks sometimes use 
for Kilmarnock. 

t Is thought to be the night when witches, devils, 
and other mischief-making beings, are all abroad on 
their baneful, midnight errands ; particularly those 
aerial people, the Fairies, are said on that night, to 
hold a grand anniversary. 



BURNS 1 POEMS. IV 

are unacquainted with the manners and traditions 
of the country where the scene is cast, notes are 
added, to give some account of the principal charms 
and spells Of that night, so big with prophecy to (he 
peasantry in the west of Scotland. The passion of 
pryinginto futurity makes a striking part of the his- 
tory of human nature in its rude state, in all ages 
and nations ; and it may be some entertainment to a 
philosophic mind, if any such should honor the 
author with a perusal, to see the remains of it* 
among the more unenlightened in our own. 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud djsdain, 
The simple pleasures of the lowly train; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 

Goldsmith. 

1. 

Upon that night, when fairies light, 

On Cassilis Downans* dance, 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, 

On sprightly coursers prance; 
Or for Colean the route is ta'en, 

Beneath the moon's pale beams ; 
There, up the cove,i to stray an 1 rove 

Amang the rocks and streams, 

To sport that night. 

II. 

Amang the bonnie winding banks, 
Where Boon rins, wimpling clear, 

* Certain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, in the 
neighborhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cas- 
silis. 

f A noted cavern near Colean-house, called The 
Cove of Colear ; which, as Ca»silis Downans, is fam- 
ed in country i tory for being a favorite haunt of fai- 
ries. 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 

Where Bruce* ance rul'd the martial ranks, 

An ' shook his Carrick spear, 
Some merry, friendly, countra folks, 

Together did convene, 
To burn their nits, an' pori their stocks, 

An' haud their Halloween 

Fu' blythe that night. 

III. 
The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when they're fine ; 
Their feces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe, 

Hearts leal, an 1 warm an' kin' : 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, 

Weel knotted on their garten, 
Some unco blate, an' some wi'gabs, 

Gar lasses' hearts gang startin 

Whiles fast at night. 

IV. 

Then first and foremost, thro 1 the kail, 
Their stocks! maun a 1 be sought ance ; 

♦The famous family of that name, the ancestors of 
Robert, the great deliverer of his country, were Earls 
of Carrick. 

i The first ceremony of Halloween is, pulling each 
a stock, or plant of kail. They must go out, hand in 
hand, with eyes shut, and pull the first they meet 
with : Its being big or little, straight or crooked, ia 
prophetic of the size and shape of the grand object of 
all their spells — the husband or wife. If any yird, or 
earth, stick to the root, that is tocher, or fortune ; 
and the taste of the cvstoc, that is, the heart of the 
stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposi- 
tion. Lastly, the stems, or, to give them their ordi- 
nary appellation, the runts, are placed somewhere 
above the head of the door : and the christian namei 
of the people whom chance brings into the house, are, 
according to the priority of placing the runts, the 
names in question. 



BURNS' POEMS. g| 

They steek their een, an' graip an' wale, 

For muckie anes an' straughi anes. 
Poor, hav'rel Will fell aff the drift, 

An 1 wander'd thro' the bow-kail, 
An' pow't for want o 1 better shift, 

A runt was like a sow-tail, 

Sae bow't that night. 
V. 
Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, 

They roar and cry a' throu'ther ; 
The vera wee things, todlin, rin 

Wi' stocks out-owre their shoufher , 
An' gif the customs sweet or sour, 

Wi 1 joctelegs they taste them ; 
Syne coziely, aboon the door, 

Wi' cannie care they place them 
To lie that night. 
VI. 
The lasses straw frae 'mang them a' 

To pou their stalks o 1 corn ;* 
But Rab slips out, an' jinks about, 

Behint.the muckie thorn: 
He grippet Nelly hard an 1 fast ; 

Loud skirl'd a' the lasses ; 
But her tap-pickle maist was lost, 

When kiuttlin in the fause-house t 
Wi' him that night. 

* They go to the barn-yard and pull each, at three 
several times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk 
wants the top-pickle, that is, the grain at the top of the 
stalk, the party in question will come to the marriage- 
bed any thing but a maid. 

fWhen the corn is in a doubtful state, bv being too 
green or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old 
timber, &c, makes a large apartment, in his stack, 
with an opening in the side which is fairest exposed to 
the wind : this he calls a fause-lwuse. 

Li 



88 BURNS' POEMS 

VII. 

The auld guidwife's vveel hoordet nit* 

Are round an 1 round divided, 
An' monie lads' and lasses' fates, 

Are there that night decided : 
Some kindle, couthie, side by side, 

An" burn thegither trimly ; 
Some start awa wi 1 saucie pride, 

And jump out-owre the chimlie 

Fu'high that night 

VIII. 

Jean slips in twa, wi' tentie e'e, 

Wha 'twas she wadna tell ; 
But this is Jock, an' this is me, 

She says in to hersel : 
He bleez'd owre her, an' she ower him, 

As they wad never mair part ; 
Till luff! he started up the lum, 

And Jean had e'en a sair heart 

To see't that night. 

IX. 

Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt, 

Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie ; 
An' Mallie, nae doubt, took, the drun* 

To be compar'd to Willie : 
Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu'' fling, 

An' her ain fit it burnt it; 
While Willie lap, and swoor by jing, 

'Twas just the way he wanted 

To be that night. 

* Burring the nuts is a famous charm. They name 
the lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay 
them in the fire, and accordingly as they hum quiet- 
ly together, or start from beside one another. Ilia 
course and issue of the courtship will be. 



BURNS' POEMS. 93 

X. 

Nell had the fause-house in her min, 1 

She pits hersel an' Rob in ; 
In loving bleeze they sweetly join, 

Till white in ase they're sobbin : 
Nell's heart was dancin at the view, 

She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't : 
Rob, stowlins, prie'd her bonnie mou, 

Fu' cozie in the neuk for't, 

Unseen that night. 

XL 

But Merran sat behint their backs, 

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 
She lea'es them gashin at their cracks, 

And slips out by hersel ; 
She thro' the yard the nearest taks, 

An' to the kiln she goes then, 
An' darkhns grapit for the bauks, 

And in the blue-clue* throws then, 

Right fear't that night. 

•XII. 

An* ay she win't, an' ay she swat, 

I wat she made nae jaukin ; 
Till something held within the pat, " 

Guid L — d ! but she was quakin ! 
But whether 'twas the Deil himsel, 

Or whether 'twas a bauken, 

* Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must 
■trictly observe these directions : Steal out, ail alone, 
to the kiln, and, darkling, throw into the pot a clue of 
blue yarn ; wind it in a new clue off the old one ; and, 
towards the latter end, something will hold the 
thread ; demand who, hands ? i. e. who holds ? an an- 
swer will be returned from the kiln-pot, by naming 
the Christian and surname of your future spouse. 



84 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 
She did na wait on talkin 

To spier that night. 

XIII. 
Wee Jenny to her Grannie says, 

" Will ye go wi 1 me, grannie ? 
I'll eat the apple* at the glass, 

I gat frae uncle Johnie :'' 
She fufTt her pipe wi' sic a lunt, 

In wrath she was sae vap'rin, 
She notic't na, an azle brunt 

Her braw new worset apron 

Out thro 1 that night. 

XIV. 
" Ye little skelpie-limmer's face ' 

How daur you try sic sportin, 
As seek the foul Thief ony place, 

For him to spae your fortune : 
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! 

Great cause ye hae to fear it ; 
For monie a ane has gotten a fright 

An' liv'd an' di'd deleeret 

On sic a night. 

XV. 

"Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor, 

I mind't as weel 1 yestreen, 
I wasagilpey then, I'm sure 

I was na past fyfteen : 
The simmer had been cauld an' wat, 

An' stuff was unco green ; 

• Take a candle, and go alone to a looking glass; 
eat an apple before it, and some traditions say, you 
should comb your hair, all the time ; the face of your 
conjugal companion, to be, will be seen in the glass, 
as if peeping over your shoulder 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 85 

An' ay a rarrtin kirn we gat, 
An' just on Halloween 

It fell that night. 

XVI. 
" Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Grasn, 

A clever, sturdy fallow ;' 
He's sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, 

That liv'd in Achmacalla: 
He gat hemp-seed * I mind it weel, 

An' he made unco light o't ; 
But monie a day was by himsel, 

He was sae sairly frighted 

That vera night." 

XVII. 
Then up gat fechtin Jamie Fleck, 

An' he swoor by his conscience, 
That he could saw hemp-seed, a peck ; 

For it was a 1 but nonsense ; 
The auld guidman raught down the pock, 

An' out a handfu' gied him ; 
Syne bad him slip fra 'mang the folk 

Sometime when nae ane see 1 d him : 
An' try', that night. 

XVIII. 
He marches thro 1 amang the stacks, 
Tho 1 he was something sturtin ; 

* Steal out unperceived, and sow a handful of hemp 
seed ; harrowing it with any thing you can conveni- 
ently draw after you. Repeat now and then, "Hemp 
seed I saw thee ; liemp-seed I saw thee; and him (.»i 
her) that is to be my true-love, come after me and pon 
thee.'' Look over your left shoulder, and you will see 
the appearance of the person invoked, in the attitude 
of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, " come after me, 
and shaw thee," that is, show thyself: in which case 
it simply appears. Others omit the harrow fng, and 
say, "come after me, and harrow thee." 



P6 BURNS' POEMS. 

The gruip he for a harrow taks, 

An' haurls at his curpin: 
An 1 ev'ry now an' then, he says, 

" Hemp-seed I saw thee, 
An' her that is to be my lass, 

Come after me, and draw thee, 

As fast this night." 

XIX. 
He whistl'd up Lord Lenox' march, 

Tu keep his courage cheerie ; 
Altho' his hair began to arch, 

lie was see fley'd an' eerie : 
Till presently he hears a squeak, 

An' then a grane an' gruntle ; 
He by his shouther gae a keek, 

An' tumbl'd wi' a wintle 

Out-owre that night. 

XX. 

He roar'd a horrid murder-shout, 

In dreadfu' desperation ! 
An' young an' auld came rinnin out, 

To hear the sad narration : 
He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, 

Or crouchie Merran Humphie, 
Till stop ! she trotted thro' them a' ; 

An' wha was it but Grumphie 
Asteer that night ' 

XXI. 

Meg fain wad to the barn gaen 
1 o win three wechts o 1 naething;* 

* The charm must likewise be preformed unper- 
ceived, and alone. You go to the barn, and open both 
d.M.rs, taking them off the hinges, if possible ; for 
in^re is danger that the beings about to appear, may 
slim the doors, and do vou some mischief. Then take 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 87 

But for to meet the deil her lane, 

She pat but little faith in : 
She gies the herd a pickle nits, 

An' twa red cheekit app'es, 
To watch, while for the barn she seta, 

In hopes to see Tam Kipples 

That vera night. 
XXII. 
She turns the key wi 1 cannie thraw, 

An 1 owre the threshold ventures ; 
But first on Sawnie gies a ca\ 

Syne bauldly in she enters ; 
A ration rattled up the wa\ 

An' she cry'd, L — d preserve her, 
An' ran thro 1 midden-hole an' a', 
An' pray'd wi' zeal an 1 fervor, 

Fu' fast that night. 
XXIII. 
They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice : 

They hecht him some fine braw ane , 
It chanc'd the stack he faddonCd thrice* 

Was timmer propt for thrawin : 
He taks a swirlie, auld moss-oak, 

For some black, grousome carlin ; 
An' loot a winze, an 1 drew a stroke, 

Till skin in blypos came haurlin 

AfT's nieves that night. 

that instrument used in winnowing the corn, which, 
in our country dialect, we call a icecht ; and go 
through all the attitudes of letting down corn against 
the wind. Repeat it three times : and the third time 
an apparition will pass through the barn, in at the 
windy door, atid out at the other, having both the 
figure in question, and the appearance or retinue 
marking the employment or station in life. 

♦Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, to a Bean 
stack, and fathom it three times round. The last fa- 
thom of the last time, you will catch in your arms the 
appearance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow. 



88 BURNS' POEMS. 

XXIV. 

A wanton widow Leezie was, 

As canty as a kittlen ; 
But och ! that night, amang the shaws, 

She got a fearfu' settlin ! 
She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn, 

An' owre the hill gaed scrievin, 
Whare three lairds 1 lands met at a 6ur»,t 

To dip her left sark-sleeve in, 

Was bent that night. 

XXV. 

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, 

As thro' the glen' it wimpl't ; 
Whyles round a rocky scar it strays , 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
Whyles glitter' d to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cookit underneath the braes, 

Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 

XXVI. 

Amang the brachens, on the brae, 

Between her an' the moon, 
The deil, or else an outler quey, 

Gat up an' gae a croon : 
Poor Leeze's neart maist lap the hool/ 

Neer lav' rock height she jumpit, 

t You go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, 
to a south running spring or rivulet, \# here " three 
lairds' lands meet," and dip your left shirt sleeve. Go 
to bed in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve be- 
fore it to dry. Lie awake ; and sometime near mid- 
night, an apparition, having the exact figure of the 
grand object in question, will come and turn th* 
•leeve. as if to dry the other side of it. 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 89 

But mist a fit, an 1 in the pool 
Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, 

W i' a plunge that night. 

XXVII. 

In order, on the clean hearth-stane, 

The luggies three* are ranged, 
And ev'ry time great care is ta'en, 

To see them duly changed : 
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 

Sin Mar's year did desire, 
Because he gat the toom-dish thrice,, 

He heav'd them on the fire 

In wrath that night. 

XXVIII. 
Wi' merry sangs, an 1 friendly cracks, 

I wat they dinna weary ; 
An' unco tales, an' funnie jokes, 

Their sports were cheap an' cheery, 
Till butter' d so'ns,! wi' fragrant lunt, 

Set a' their gabs a-steerin ; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, 

They parted affcareerin 

Fu' blythe that night. 

• Take three dishes ; put clean water in one, foal 
water in another, leave the third empty : blindfold a 
person, and lead him to the hearth where the dish- 
es are ranged ; he (or she) dips the left hand ; if by 
chance in the clean water, the future husband or 
wife will come to the bar of matrimony chaste ; if in 
the foul, the reverse ; if in the empty dish, it foretells, 
with equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is repeat- 
ed three times, and every timethe arrangement of the 
dishes is altered. 

fSowens, with butter instead of milk to them, i» 
always t»e Halloween Supper. 



90 BURNS' POEM3. 

THE AULD FARMER'S 
NEW-TEAR MORNING SALUTATION 

TO 

HIS AULD MARE MAGGIE, 

0» giving her the accustomed Ripp of Corn to feai 
eel in the New-Year. 

A ouid New-year I wish thee, Maggie ! 
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie : 
Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an' knaggie, 

I've seen the day, 

Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie 

Out-owre the lay. 

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, 
An* thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, 
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie, 

A bonnie gray : 
He should been tight that daur't to raize the# 
Ance in a day. 

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
A filly buirdly. steeve, an' swank, 
An' set weel down a shapely shank, 

As e'er tread yird ; 
An 1 could hae flown out-owre a stank 
Like ony bird. 

It's now some nine an' twenty year, 
Sin' thou was my good father's meere; 
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, 

An' fifty mark ; 
Tho' it was sma\ 'twas weel-won gear, 

An' thou was stariw 

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was trottin wi' your minnie : 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 91 

Tho* ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie, 

Ye ne'er was donsie ; 

But namely, tawie, quiet, an 1 cannie, 
An' unco sonsie. 

That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, 
When ye bure hame my bonnie bride ; 
An' sweet, an' gracefu' she did ride, 
Wi' maiden air ! 
Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide, 
For sic a pair. 

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte an' hobble, 
An' wintle like a saumont-coble, 
That day ye was a jinker noble, 

For heels an 1 win' ' 
An' ran them till they a' did vvauble, 

Far, far behin 1 . 

When thou an 1 1 were young an'skeigh, 
An' stable- meals at fairs were dreigh. 
How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh, 

An 1 tak the road ! 
Town's bodies ran, and stood abeigh, 
An' ca't thee mad. 

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow. 
We took the road ay like a swallow : 
At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, 

For pith an' speed • 
But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, 

Where'er thou gaed. 

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, 
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; 
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, 

An' gar't them whaizle : 
Sine whip nor spur, but just a wattle 

O'saugh or hazel. 



*V BURNS 1 POEMS. 

Thou was a x\ob\afittie-lan\ 
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn! 
Aft thee an 1 J, in aught hours gaun, 

On guid March weather. 
Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han\ 

For days thegither. 

Th«m never braindg't, an' fetch't, an' flisk.it. 
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, 
An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket, 

Wi 1 pith, an' pow'r, 
Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket, 

An' slypet owre. 

When frosts lay lang, an'snaws were deep, 
An' threatened labor back to keep, 
I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap 

Aboon the timmer ; 
I kenn'd my Maggie wad na sleep 

For that, or simmer. 

In cart or car thou never reestit ; 
The steyest brae thou wad hae facH it : 
Thou never lap, and sten't, and breastit, 

Then steed to blaw ; 
But just thy step a wee thing hastit, 

Thou snoov't awa. 

My pleugJi is now thy bairn-time a' : 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw : 
Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa, 

That thou hast nurst : 
They drew me thretteen pund an' tva, 

The vera warst. 

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, 
A n' wi' the weary warl' fought ! 
An' monie an anxious day, 1 thought 
We wad be beat ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 93 

Vet here to crazy age we're brought, 
Wi' something yet. 

And think na, my auld trusty servan', 
That now prehaps thou's less deservin, 
An' thy auld days may end in starvin, 

For my last fou, 
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 
Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither , 
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither ; 
Wi' tentie care, I'll flit thy tether, 

To some hain'd rig, 
Where ye may nobly rax your leather, 
Wi' sma 1 fatigue. 



TO A MOUSE, 

OH TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THB 
PLOUGH, NOVEMBER 1785. 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, 
O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 

Wi' murdering pattle ! 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion, 

Which maks thee staitle 
At me, they poor earth-born companion, 
An' fellow mortal ! 



94 BURNS' POEMS. 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; 
What them ? poor beastie, thou maun live \ 
A daimen-icher in a throve 

'S a sma' request : 
I'll get a blessin wi 1 the lave, 

.And never miss't ! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
ItB silly wa's the win's are strewin ! 
An' naething, now, to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green ! 
An' bleak December's winds ensuin, 

Baith snell and keen! 
Thou saw the field laid bear an' waste, 
An' weary winter comin fast, 
An 1 cozie here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell, 
Till crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out thro' thy cell. 
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, 
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'd out, for a 1 thy trouble, 

But house or hald, 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 

An' cranreuch cauld ' 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
In proving foresight may be vain : 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, 

Gang aft a-gley, 
An' lea'e us nought but grief an pain, 
For promis'd joy. 

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me ' 
The present only toucheth thee : 
But, och ! I backward cast my e'e, 

On prospects drear, 
An' forward, tho' I canna see, 

I euess an" 1 fear. 



BURNS' POEMS. 95 

A WINTER NIGHT. 



Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, 
That bide the pelting of this pityless storm ! 
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides. 
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you 
From seasons such as these 1 — Shakspeare. 



When biting Boreas, fell and doure, 
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r ; 
When Fhcebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r 

Far south the lift, 

Dim-dark ? ning thro' the flaky show'r 

Or whirling drift : 

Ae night the storm the steeples rock'd, 
Poor labor sweet in sleep was lock'd, 
While burns, wi 1 snawy wreeths up-chock'd, 

Wild-eddying swirl, 
Or thro* the mining outlet bock'd, 

Down headlong hurl. 

List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, 
I thought me on the ourie cattle, 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle, 

O' winter war, 
And thro 1 the drift, deep-lairing sprattle, 

Beneath a scar. 

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, 
That, in the merry months o 1 spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee ? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing. 
An 1 close thy e'e ? 

Ev'n you, on murd'ring errands toil'd, 
Lone from your savage homes exil'd, 



96 BURNS' POEMS. 

The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd, 
My heart forgets, 

While pityless the tempest wild 

Sore on you beats. 

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, 
Dark muffl'd, view'd the dreary plain, 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, 

Rose in my soul, 
When on my ear this plaintive strain, 

Slow, solemn, stole — 

" Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust! 
And freeze, thou bitter, biting frost ! 
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows ! 
Not all your rage, as now united, shows 

More hard unkindness, unrelenting, 

Vengeful malice, unrepenting, 
Than heav'n illumin'd man on brother man be- 
stows ! 

See stern oppression's iron grip, 
Or mad ambition's gory hand, 

Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 
Wo, want, and murder o'er a land ! 

Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale, 

Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, 
How pamper'd luxury, flatt'ry by her side, 

The parasite empoisoning her ear, 

With all the servile wretches in the rear, 
Look o'er proud property, extended wide; 

And eyes the simple rustic hind, 

Whose toil upholds the glittering show, 

A creature of another kind, 

Some coarser substance, unrefin'd, [low , 
Plac d for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, be- 
Where, where is love's fond, tender throe, 

With lordly honor's lofty brow, 
The pow'rs you proudly own? 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 97 

is there, beneath love's noble name, 
Can harbor, dark, the selfish aim, 

To bless himself alone ! 
Mark maiden-innocence a prey 

To love-pretending snares, 
This boasted honor turns away 
Shunning soft pity's rising sway, 
Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs 
Perhaps, this hour, in mis'ry's squalid nest, 
She strains your infant to her joyless breast, 
And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rock 
ing blast ! 
Oh ye ! who sunk in beds of down, 
Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, 
Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
Ill-satisfy'd keen nature's clam'rous call, 
Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to 



While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, 
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap 
Think on the dungeon's grim confine, 
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine ' 
Guilt, erring man, relenting view ! 
But shall thy legal rage pursue 
The wretch, already crushed low 
By cruel fortune's underserved blow ? 

Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, 

A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss 

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer 
Shook off the pouthery snaw, 

And hail'd the morning with a cheer, 
A cottage-rousing craw. 

But deep this truth impress'd my mind- 
Thro' all his works abroad, 

The heart, benevolent and kind 
The most resembles God. 
M 7 



98 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 
A BROTHER POET.* 

January 

While winds frae aff Ben Lomond blaw, 
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, 

And hing us ower the ingle, 
I set me down to pass the time, 
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, 

In namely westlin jingle. 
While frosty winds blaw in the drift, 

Ben to the chimla lug, 
I grudge a wee the great folks' gift, 
That live sae bien an 1 snug : 
I tent less, and want less 
Their roomy fire-side ; 
But hanker and canker, 
To see their cursed pride. 

II. 
It's hardly in a body's pow'r, 
To keep, at times, frae being sour, 

To see how things are shar'd ; 
How best o' chiels are whiles in want, 
While coofs on countless thousands rant, 

And ken na how to wair't : 
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, 

Tho' we hae little gear, 
We're fit to win our daily bread,. 
As lang's we're hale and fier : 
" Mair spier na', nor fear na,"+ 

Auld age ne'er mind a feg, 
The last o't, the warst o't, 
Is only for (o beg. 

* David Sillar, one of the club at Tarbolton, and 
author of a volume of Poems in the Scottish dia- 
ect.— E. t Ramsay. 



BURNS' POEMS. 99 

III. 

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, 
When banes are craz'd and bluid is thin, 

Is, doubtless, great distress! 
Yet then content could make m blest ; 
A n r n ' sometil «es we'd snatch a taste 
Of truest happiness. 
The honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guilt, 
However fortune kick the ba\ 
Has ay some cause to smile, 
And mind still, you'll find still, 

A comfort this nae sma' ; 
Nae mair then, we'll care then, 
Nae farther can we fa'. 

IV. 
What tho', like commoners of air, 
We wander out, we know not where, 

But either house or hall ? 
Yet nature> charms, the hills and woods 
1 he sweeping vales, and foaming floods, 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground, 

Andblackbirds whistle clear, 
With honest joy our hearts will bound, 
1 o see the coming year : 
On braes when we please, then, 

We'll sit an' sowth a tune ; 
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't, 
And sing 't when we hae done. 

V. 

It's no in titles nor in rank ; 

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's no in makin muckle mair : 



LofC. 



100 BURNS' POEMS. 

It's no in books ; it's no in lear, 

To make us truly blest : 
If happiness hae not her seat 

And centre in the breast, 
We may be wise, or rich, or great 
But never can be blest ; 
Nae treasures, nor pleasures, 

Could make us happy lang ; 
The heart ay's the part ay, 
That makes us right or wrang. 

VI. 

Think ye, that sic as you and I, 

Wha drudge and drive thro' wet and dry 

Wi' never-ceasing toil ; 
Think ye, are we less blest than they 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way 

As hardly worth their while ? 
Alas ! how aft in haughty mood, 
God's creatures they oppress ! 
Or else neglecting a' that's guid, 
They riot in excess ! 

Baith careless, and fearless 
Of either heav'n or hell! 
Esteeming, and deeming 
It's a' an idle tale ! 

VII. 

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce , 
Nor make our scanty pleasures less, 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortunes come 
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 

An's thankfu' for them yet. 
They gie the wit of age to youth ; 

They let us ken oursel : 
They make us see the naked truth. 

The real guid and ill. 



BURNS' POEMS. 101 

Tho' losses, and crosses, 

Be lessons right severe, 
There's wit there, ye' 11. get there, 

Ye'll find nae other where. 



VIII. 

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts ! 

(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, 

And flatt'ry I detest) 
This life c has joys for you and I ; 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy ; 

And joys the very best. 
There's pleasures o' the heart, 

The lover an' the frien' ; 
Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, 
And I my darfing Jean ! 
It warms me, it charms me, 
To mention but her name : 
It heats me, it beats me, 
And sets me a' on flame ! 



IX. 

O' all ye pow'rs who rule above ! 
O Thou, whose very self art love ! 

Thou know'st my words sincere ! 
The life-blood streaming thro 1 my heart, 
Or my more dear, immortal part, 

Is not more fondly dear ! 
When heart-corroding care and griei 

Deprive my soul of rest, 
Her dear idea brings relief 
And solace to my breast. 
Thou Being, All-seeing, 

O hear my fervent pray'r ; 
Still take her, and make her 
Thy most peculiar care ' 



>9 BURNS' POKMS. 



AH hail, ye tender feelings dear ! 
The smile of love, the friendly tear, 

The sympathetic glow ; 
Long since, this world's thorny ways 
Had number' d out my weary days, 

Had it not been for you ! 
Fate still has bless'd me with a friend, 

In every care and ill ; 
And oft a more endearing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens 
The tenebrific scene, 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean. 

XL 

O, how that name inspires my style ! 
The words come skelpin rank and file, 

Amaist before I ken ! 
The ready measure rins as fine, 
As Phcebus and the famous Nine 

Were glowrin owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus will limp, 

Till ance he s fairly het ; 
And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jump, 
An' rin an unco fit : 

But least then, the beast then, 
Should rue this hasty ride, 
I'll light now, and dight now 
His sweaty wizen'd hide. 



BURNS' POEMS. 10) 

THE LAMENT, 



OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE IS8UE OF A 
friend's AMOHR. 



Alas ! how oft does Goodness wound Itself, 
And sweet Affection prove the spring of we t 

Horn 



I. 

thou pale orb, that silent shines, 
While care -untroubled mortals steep 

Thou seets a wretch that inly pines, 
And wanders here to wail and weep ! 

With wo I nightly vigils keep, 
Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam 

And mourn, in lamentation deep, 
How life and love are ail a dream. 

II. 

1 joyless view thy rays adorn 

The faintly- marked distant hill : 
I joyless view thy trembling horn, 

Reflected in the gurgling rill : 
My fondly-fluttering heart, be still! 

Thou busy pow'r, Remembrance, 
Ah ! must the agonizing thrill 

Forever bar returning peace ! 

III. 

No idly-feign'd poetic pains, 

My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim, 
No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains; 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame: 
The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; 

The oft attested pow'rs above : 



104 BURNS POEMS. 

The promised Father's lender name : 
These were the pledges of my love ! 

IV. 
Encircled in her clasping arms, 

How have the raptur'd moments flown ' 
How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, 

For her dear sake, and her's alone ! 
And must I think it ! is she gone, 

My secret heart's exulting boast ? 
And does she heedless hear my groan ? 

And is she ever, ever lost" ? 

V. 

Oh ! can she bear so base a heart, 

So lost to honor, lost to truth, 
As from the fondest lover part, 

The plighted husband of her youth ! 
Alas ! life's path may be unsmooth ; 

Her way lead far thro 1 rough distress ! 
Then who her pangs and pains will soothe, 

Her sorrows share, and make them less ? 

VI. 
Ye winged hours, that o'er us past, 

Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, 
Your dear remembrance in my breast, 

My fondly-treasur'd thoughts emplov'd. 
That breast how dreary now, and void, 

For her too scanty once of room ! 
Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd, 

And not a wish to gild the gloom ! 

VII. 
The morn that warns th' approaching day, 

Awakes me up to toil and wo : 
I see the hours in long array, 

That I must suffer, lingering, slow. 



BURNS' POEMS. 105 

Full many a pang, and many a throe, 
Keen recollection's direful train, 

Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low, 
Shall kiss the distant, western main. 

VIII. 

And when my nightly couch I tiy, 

Sore-harass'd out with care and grief, 
My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, 

Keep watchings with the nightly thief: 
Or if I siumber, fancy, chief, 

Reigns haggard-wild in sore affright : 
Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief, 

From such a horror-breathing night. 

IX. 

! thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse, 

Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway ! 
Oft has thy silent-marking glance 

Observed us, fondly-wand'ring, stray ! 
The time, unheeded, sped away, 

While love's luxurious pulse beat high 
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, 

To mark the mutual kindling eye. 

X. 

Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance set ! 

Scenes, never, never, to return ! 
Scenes, if in stupor I forget, 

Again I feel, again I burn ! 
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, 

Life's weary vale I'll wander thro', 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 

A faithless woman's broken vow. 



N 



106 BURNS' P0EM8. 

DESPONDENCY, 

AN ODE. 
I. 

Oppress' d with grief, oppress'd with care, 
A burden more than I can bear, 

I sit me down and sigh : 
life ! thou art a galling load, 
Along a rough, a weary road, 

To wretches such as I ! 
Dim backward as I cast my view, 
What sickling scenes appear! 
What sorrows yet may pierce me thro', 
Too justly I may fear ! 
Still caring, despairing, 

Musi be my bitter doom ; 
My woes here shall close ne'er, 
But with the closing tomb ! 

II. 
Happy, ye sons of busy life, 
Who, equal to the bustling strife, 

No other view regard ! 
Ev'n when the wished end 's deny'd, 
Yet while the busy means are ply'd, 

They bring their own reward : 
Whilst I, a hope-abandon' d wight, 

Unfitted with an aim, 
Meet ev'ry sad returning night, 
And joyless morn the same ; 
You, bustling, and justling, 

Forget each grief and pain : 
I, listless, yet restless, 
Find every prospect vain. 

III. 
How blest the Solitary's lot, 
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot, 



BURNS' POEMS. 107 

Within his humble cell, 
The cavern wild, with tangling roots, 
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits, 

Beside his crystal well ! 
Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought, 

By unfrequented stream, 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint collected dream : 
While praising, and raising 

His thoughts to heav'n on high, 
As wand'ring, meandring, 
He views the solemn sky. 

IV. 

Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd 
Where never human footstep trae'd, 

Less fit to play the part ; 
The lucky moment to improve, 
And just to stop, and just to move, 

With self-respecting art : 
But ah ! those pleasures, love, and joys, 

Which I too keenly taste, 
The Solitary can despise, 
Can want, and yet be blest ! 
He needs not, he heeds not, 

Or human love or hate, 
Whilst I here, must cry here, 
At perfidy ingrate ! 

V. 

Oh ! enviable, early days, 

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's mu«, 

To care, to guilt unknown ! 
How ill exchanged for riper times, 
To feel the follies, or the crimes, 

Of others, er my own ! 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, 

Like linnets in the bush. 



108 BURNS' POEMS. 

Ye little know the ills ye court, 
When manhood is your wish : 
The losses, the crosses, 

That active man engage ! 
The fears all, the tears all, 
Of dim-declirt-^g age. 



WINTER, 

A DTIIGE. 
I. 

Thb wintry west extends his blast, 

And hail and rain does blaw ; 
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw : 
While tumbling brown, the burn comes dowa 

And roars frae bank to brae ; 
And bird and beast in covert rest 

And pass the heartless day. 

II. 

" The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast," 

The joyless winter-day, 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, 

My griefs it seems to join, 
The leafless trees my fancy please, 

Their fate resembles mine. 

III. 
Thou Pow'r Supreme, whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine fulfill, 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, 

Because they are Thy Will : 



BURNS' POEMS. 109 



Then all I want (0, do thou grant 
This one request of mine !) 

Since to enjoy thou dost deny, 
Assist me to resign. 



THB 

COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT, 
INSCRIBED TO R. A****, ESQ. 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 

Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 

The short but simple annals of the poor. — GRAY 

I. 

My lov'd, my honor'd, much respected friend! 

No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end ; 

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise- 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene ; 
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways : 

What A**** in a cottage would have been ; 
Ah! tho'his worth unknown, far happier there, 1 ween 

II. 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 
The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the plough, 

The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose s 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes, 
This night his weekly toil is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hamewarrf 
bend. 

III. 
At length his lonely cot apears in view, 
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 



10 BURNS' POEMS. 

Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher thro' 
To meet their Dad, vvi' flichterin noise an' glee 

His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnily, 
His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, 

The lisping infant prating on his knee, 
Does a' his weary, carking cares teguile, 
An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil. 

IV. 

Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, 

At service out amang the farmers roun'; 
Some ra' the pleugh, some herd ; some tentie rin 

A cannie errand to a neebor town : 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 

In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, 
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown 

Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee, 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

V. 

Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet r 

An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers: 
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet ; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; 

Anticipation forward points the view. 
The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel 's the new j 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

VI. 

Their master's an' their mistress's command, 

The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
"An' mind their labors wi' an eydent hand, 

An ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play : 
An' O ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 

An' mind your duty, duly, morn an'nightl 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 
Implore his counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lo»<! 
aright." 

VII. 
But hark 1 a rap comes gently to the door ; 
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 



BURNS' POEMS. Ill 

Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 
With heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name, 
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
»Veel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild, worth- 
less rake. 

VIII. 
Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; 

A strappan youth ; he taks the mother's eye ; 
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's nae ill ta'en ; 

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 

But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave; 
Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the 
lave. 

IX. 
O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 

O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 
I've paced much this weary mortal round, 

And sage experience bids me this declare — 
"If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'n- 
ing gale." 

X. 
Is there, In human form, that bears a heart — 
A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth! 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth 1 
Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling smooth ! 

Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exil'd 1 
la there no pity, no relenting ruth, 
Points to the parents fondling o'er their child % 
Th>?n paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction 
wild? 

XI. 

But now the supper crowns their simple board, 

The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food; 



1-12 BURNS' POEMS. 

The soupe their only Hawkie does afford, 
That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood ! 

The dame brings forth in coinplimental mood, 
To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell, 

Ato' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 
The frugal wifie, garrulous will tell, 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell 

XII. 
The r.heerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 

They round the ingle form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, 

The big ha-Bible, ance his father's pride : 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 

He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
And "Let us worship God !" he says, with solemn air 

XIII. 
They chant their artless notes in simple guise, 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim • 
Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise, 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name, 
Or noble Elfin beets the heav'nward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays ; 
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame ; 

The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise; 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

XIV. 
The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 

How Jlbram was the friend of God on high \ 
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Jimalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how (he royal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of heaven's avenging ire) 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

XV. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 
How guiltless blood for guilty man was sbei * 



BURNS' POEMS. 113 

How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, 

Had not on eaith whereon to lay his head ; 
How his first followers and servants sped ; 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land i 
How Ac. who lone in Patmos banished, 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
And hoard great Baboon's doom pronounc'd by 
Heav'n's command. 

XVI. 

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing,"* 

That thus they all shall meet in future days : 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 

In such society, yet still more dear ; 
While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

XVII. 

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method and of art, 
When men display to congregations wide, 

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart! 
The Pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will desert, 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; 
But haply, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul; 
\nd in his book of life the inmates poor enroll. 

XVIII. 

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
The parent-pair their seciet homage pay, 

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request 
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nesi, 

And decks the lily fair with flow'ry pride, 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, 

For them and for their little ones provide ; 
Mm chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside 

* Pope's Windsor Fores! 

8 



114 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

XIX. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur spriric* 

That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

"An honest man's the noblest work of God :" 
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp ! a cumbrous load, 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd ! 

XX. 

O Scotia . my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent i 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, 

Be bless'd with health, and peace, and calm con- 
tent ! 
And, O ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Islt 

XXI. 

O Thouf who pour'd the patriotic tide 

That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart ; 
Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 

Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art, 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) 
O never, never, Scotia's realm desert; 

But still the patriot and the patriot bard, 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard i 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN, 

A DIRGE. 
I. 

When chill November's surly blast 
Made fields and forests bare, 



BURNS' POKMS. 115 

One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth 
Along the banks of Ayr, 

I spy'd a man, whose aged step 
Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 

His face was furrow'd o'er with years, 
And hoary was his hair. 

II. 

II Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou f" 
^ Began the reverend sage ; 

" Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, 

Or youthful pleasure's rage ; 
Or haply, press'd with cares and woes, 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me, to mourn 

The miseries of man ! 

III. 

" The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Out-spreading far and wide. 
Where hundreds labor to support 
t A haughty lordling's pride ; 
I've seen yon weary winter-sun 

Twice forty times return ; 
And ev'ry time has added proofs, 

That man was made to mourn. 

IV. 

" O man ! while in thy early years, 

How prodigal of time ! 
Mispending all thy precious hours, 
Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
Alternate follies take the sway 

Licentious passions burn ; 
Which tenfold force gives nature's law, 
That man was made to mourn. 



116 BURNS' POEMS. 

V. 

" Look not alone on youthful prime, 

Or manhood's active might ; 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

Supported is his right : 
But see him on the edge of life, 

With cares and sorrows worn, 
Then age and want, oh ! ill matched pair 

Show man was made to mourn. 

VI. 

" A few seem favorites of fate, 

In pleasure's lap carest ; 
Yet think not, all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But 1 oh ! what crowds in ev'ry land, 

Are wretched and forlorn ; 
Thro' weary life this lesson learn, 

That man was made to mourn. 

VII. 

" Many and sharp the num'rous ills 

Inwoven with our frame ! 
More pointed still we make ourselves, 

Regret, remorse, and shame ! 
And man, whose heaven-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands mourn ! 

VIII. 
" See yonder poor, o'erlabor'd wight, 

So abject, mean, and vile, 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil ; 
And see his lordly fellow-worm 

The poor petition spurn, 
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 



BLRNS 1 POEMS. 117 

IX. 

" If I'm design 'd yon lordling's slave, — 

By nature's law design'd, 
Why was an independent wish 

E er planted in my mind ? 
If not, why am I subject to 

His cruelty or scorn ? 
Or why has man the will and pow'r 

To make his fellow mourn t 



11 Yet, let not this, too much, my son, 

Disturb thy youthful breast: 
This partial view of human-kind 

Is surely not the last .' 
The poor, oppressed, honest man, 

Had never, sure, been born, 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn ! 

XI. 

" mi^ eat ^ ! tne poor man ' s dearest friend, 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest ! 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow. 

From pomp and pleasure torn ; 
But, oh! a bless'd relief to those 

That weary-laden mourn!" 



118 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

A 

PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT 

O P 

DEATH. 

I. 

O thou unknown, Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear ! 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour 

Perhaps I must appear ! 

II. 

If I have wander' d in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun, 
As something, loudly, in my breast, 

Remonstrates I have done ; 

III. 

Thou know' st that thou hast formed me 
With passions wild and strong ; 

And list'ning to their witching voice 
Has often led me wrong. 

IV. 

Where human weakness has come short, 

Or frailty stept aside, 
Do thou, All- Good! for such thou art, 

In shades of darkness hide. 

V. 

Where with intention I have err'd, 

No other plea I have, 
But, Thou art good; and goodness still 

Delighteth to forgive. 



BURNS' POEMS. 119 

STANZAS 
ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

Why am I loath to leave this earthly scene ? 

Have I so found it full of pleasing charms ? 
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between : 

Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing 
storms : 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ? 

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode f 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms; 

I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. 

Fain would I say, " Forgive my foul offence !*' 

Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
But, should my Author health again dispense, 

Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; 
Again in folly's path might go astray : 

Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; 
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray, 

Who act so counter heavenly mercy's 
plan? 
Who am so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation 
ran? 



thou, great Governor of all below ! 

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, 

Or still the tumult of the raging sea : 
With that, controlling pow'r assist ev'n me, 

Those headlong, furious passions to confine; 
For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be, 

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line ; 
O, aid me with thy help, Omnipotence IH- 



120 BURNS' P0KM3. 

LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE NIGHT 
THE AUTHOR LEFT 

THE FOLLOWING VERSES 

IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. 

I. 

O thou dread Pow'r, who reign'st above! 

I know thou wilt me hear : 
When for this scene of peace and love, 

I make my pray'r sincere. 

II. 
The hoary sire — the mortal stroke, 

Long, long, be pleas'd to spare ! 
To bless his little filial flock, 

And show what good men are. 

III. 

She, who her lovely offspring eye* 

With tender hopes and fears, 
O, bless her with a mother's joys, 

But spare a mother's tears ! 

IV. 
Their hope, their stay, their darling youth 

In manhood's dawning blush ; 
Bless him, thou God of love and truth, 

Up to a parent's wish ! 

V. 

The beauteous, seraph sister-band, 

With earnest tears I pray, 
Thou know' st the snares on ev'ry hand, 

Guide thou their steps alway ! 

VI. 
When soon or late they reach that coast, 
O'er Ufe's rough ocean driv'n, 



BURNS' POEMS. 121 

May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, 
A family in Heav'n ! 



THE FIRST PSALM. 

The man, in life wherever plac'd 

Hath happiness in store, 
Who walks not in the wicked's way 

Nor learns their guilty lore ! 
Nor from the seat of scornful pride 

Casts forth hi3 eyes abroad, 
But with humility and awe 

Still walks before his God. 
That man shall flourish like the trees 

Which by the streamlets grow ; 
The fruitful top is spread on high, 

And firm the root below. 
But he whose blossom buds in guilt, 

Shall to the ground be cast, 
And like the rootless stubble, tost 

Before the sweeping blast. 
For why ? that God the good adore, 

Hath giv'n them peace and rest, 
But hath decreed that wicked men 

Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



A PRAYER, 

UNDER TE* PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH 

O thou Great Being ! what thou art 
Surpasses me to know : 



! BURNS' POEMS. 

Yet sure I am, that known to thee* 
Are all thy works below. 

Thy creature here before thee stands, 
All wretched and distrest; 

Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 
Obey thy high behest. 

Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ! 
O, free my weary eyes from tears, 

Or close them fast in death ! 
But if I must afflicted be, 

To suit some wild design ; 
Then man my soul with firm resolves 

To bear and not repine ! 



FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINTIETH 
PSALM. 

O thou, the first, the greatest friend 

Of all the human race J 
Whose strong right hand has ever been 

Their stay and dwelling place ! 

Before the mountains heav'd their heads 

Beneath thy forming hand, 
Before this pond'rous globe itself, 

Arose at thy command : 

That pow'r wnich rais'd, and still upholds 

This universal frame, 
From countless, unheginning time 

Was ever still the sane., 



BURNS ?OEMS. 123 

Those mighty periods of years 

Which seem to us so vast, 
Appear no more before thy sight 

Than yesterday that's past. 

Thou giv'st the word : thy creature, man, 

Is to existence brought : 
Again thou say'st, " Ye sons of men, 

Return ye into nought !'' 

Thou layest them, with all their cares, 

In everlasting sleep ; 
As with a flood thou tak'st them off 

With overwhelming sweep. 
They flourish like the morning flow'r, 

In beauty's pride array 'd; 
But long ere night, cut down it lies, 

All wither'd and decay'd. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH III 
APRIL, 1786. 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flowT, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem; 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 
Thou bonnie gem. 

Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
The bonnie Lark, companion meet! 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 

. Wi 1 spreckled breast; 
When upward-springing, blythe to greet 
The purpling east. 



124 BURNS' POEMS. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, 
High shelf ring woods and wa's maun shield 
But thou, beneath the random bield 
O' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stihble- field, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Such 18 the fate of artless Maid, 
Sweet flow' 1 ret of the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betray'd, 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 
Low i 1 the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple Bard, 
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! 
Unskillful he to note the card 

Of "prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er! 

Such fate of suffering worth is giv'n,^ 
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, 
By human pride or cunning driv'n, 

To mis'ry's brink, 
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heaven, 
He, ruin'd, sink ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 125 

E'vn thou who moum'st the Daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin's plough-share drives elate, 

Full on thy bloom, 
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 

Shall be thy doom ! 



TO RUIN. 
I. 

All hail ! inexorable lord! 

At whose destruction-breathing word, 

The mightiest empires fall ! 
Thy cruel wo-delighted train, 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all ! 
With stern-resolv'd, despairing eyes, 

I see each aimed dart ; 
For one has cut my dearest tie, 
And quivers in mv heart : 
Then low'nng, and pouring, 

The storm no more I dread ; 
Tho' thick'ning, and black'ning, 
Round my devoted head. 

II. 

And, thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd 
While life a pleasure can afford, 

O ! hear a wretch's pray'r ! 
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid , 
I court, I beg thy friendly aid, 

To close this scene of care ! 
When shall my soul in silent peace, 

Resign life's joyless day; 
My weary heart its throbbing cease, 

Cold mould'ring in the clay ? 



126 BURNS' POEMS. 

No fear more, no tear more, 
To stain my lifeless face ; 

Enclasped, and grasped 
Within thy cold embrace ' 



TO MISS L— , 

WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS AS A NEW-YEAK's OIFT 
JAN. 1, 1787. 

Aoain the silent wheels of time 
Their annual round have driv'n, 

And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, 
Are so much nearer heav'n. 

No gifts have I from Indian coasts, 

The infant year to hail ; 
I send you more than India boasts 

In Edwin's simple tale. 

Our sex with guile and faithless love 

Is charg'd, perhaps, too true ; 
But may, dear maid, each lover prove 

An Edwin still to you ! 



EPISTLE TO A YOUNG ERIENIX 

MAY-1788. 
I. 

I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend, 
A something to have sent you, 

Tho 1 it should serve nae other end 
Than just a kind memento ; 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 197 

But how the subject-theme may gang, 
Let time and chance determine ; 

Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 
Perhaps turn out a sermon. 

II. 

Ye'U try the world soon, my lad. 

And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
YV11 find mankind an unco squad, 

And muckle they may grieve ye. 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

Ev'n when your end's attained ; 
And a' your views may come to nought, 

Where ev'ry nerve is strained. 

III. 
I'll no say, men are villains a'; 

The real harden' d wicked, 
VVha hae nae check but human law, 

Are to a few restricked : 
But och ! mankind are unco weak, 

An' little to be trusted ; 
If self the wavering balance shake, 

It' 8 rarely right adjusted ! 

IV. 

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, 

Their fate we should nae censure, 
For still th' important end of life, 

They equally may answer ; 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Tho* poortith hourly stare him ; 
A man may tak a neebor's part, 

Yet hae na cash to spare him. 

V 

Ay free, aff'han' your story tell, 
When \vi' a bosom crony ; 



128 BURNS' POEMS. 

But still keep something to yoursel 

Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can 

Frae critical dissection ; 
But keek thro' ev'ry other man, 

Wi' sharpen'd, slee inspection. 

VI. 

The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, 

Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
But never tempt th' illicit rove, 

Tho'naething should divulge it ! 
I waive the quantum o' the sin, 

The hazard of concealing ; 
But och ! it hardens a' within, 

And petrifies the feeling ! 

VII. 

To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, 

Assiduous wait upon her ; 
And gather gear by ev'ry wile 

That's justified by honor ; 
Not for to hide it in a hedge, 

Not for a train-attendant ; 
But for the glorious privilege 

Of being independent. 

VIII. 

The fear o 1 hell's a hangman's whip, 

To haud the wretch in order ; 
But where ye feel your honor grip, 

Let that ay be your border ; 
Its slightest touches, instant pause— 

Debat a' side pretences ; 
And resolutely keep its laws, 

Uncaring consequences. 



BURNS' POEMS. 129 

IX. 
The great Creator to revere, 

Must sure become the creature, 
But still the preaching cant forbear, 

And ev'n the rigid feature : 
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, 

Be complaisance extended ; 
An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange 
For Deity offended ! 

X. 

When ranting round in pleasure's ring, 

Religion may be blinded ; 
Or if she gie a random sting, 

It may be little minded ; 
But when on life we're tempest-driv'n, 

A conscience but a canker — 
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n, 

Is sure a noble anchor ! 

XI. 
Adieu, dear, amiable youth ! 

Your heart can ne'er be wanting • 
May prudence, fortitude, and truth, 

Erect your brow undaunting ! 
In P I . ( ?. u § hman Phrase, " God send you spe*4," 

Still daily to grow wiser : 
And may you better reck the rede, 

Than ever did th' adviser ! 



ON A SCOTCH BARD 
GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. 

A' ve wha live by soups o' drink, 
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, 



130 BURNS' POEMS. 

A* ye wha live and never think, 

Come mourn wi' me! 

Our billie's gien us a' a jink, 

An 1 owre the sea. 

Lament him a' ye rantin core, 
Wha dearly like a random-splore, 
Nae mair he'll join the merry-roar, 

In social key ; 
For now he's ta'en anither shore, 

An' owre the sea. 

The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, 
And in their dear 'petitions place him : 
The widows, wives, an 1 a' may bless him, 

Wi 1 tearfu' e'e ; 
For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him 

That's owre the sea. 

O Fortune, they hae room to grumble ! 
Hadst thou ta'en affsome drowsy bummle, 
Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble, 

'Twad been nae plea ; 
But he was gleg as ony wumble, 

That's owre the sea. 

Auld, cantie Klye may weepers wear, 
An 1 stain them wi 1 the saut, saut tear ; 
'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear, 

In flinders flee ; 
He was her laureate monie a year, 

That's owre the sea. 

He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; 
A jiflet brak his heart at last, 

111 may she be * 
80, took a birth afore .he mast, 

An' owre the sea. 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 131 

To tremble under Fortune's cummock, 
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, 
Wi' his proud, independent stomach, 
Could ill agree ; 
So, row't his hurdies in a hammock, 

An 1 owre the sea. 

He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, 
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; 
Wi* him it ne'er was under hiding ; 

He dealt it free : 
The muse was a' that he took pride in, 

That's owre the sea. 

Jamaica bodies, use him weel, 
An' hap him in a cozie biel : 
Ye'U find him ay a dainty chiel, 

And fou 1 o'glee ; . 
He wad na wrang'd the vera ded, 

That's owre the sea. 

Farewoel, my rhyme-composing billie ! 
Your native soil was right ill-willie ; 
But may ye flourish like a lily, 

Now bonnilie ! 
I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, 

Tho' owre the sea. 



TO A HAGGIS. 

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race ! 
Aboon them a 1 ye tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or thairm, 
Weel are ye wordy of a grace 

As lang's my arm. 



132 BURNS' POEMS. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill, 
Your hurdies like a distant hill, 
Your pin wad help to mend a mill 

In time o' need, 
While thro' your pores the dews distill 
Like amber bead. 

His knife see rustic labor dight, 
An' cut you up with ready slight, 
Trenching your gushing entrails bright 

Like onie ditch ; 
And then, O what a glorious sight, 

Warm-reekin, rich ! 

Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive 
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, 
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve 

Are bent like drums , 
Then auld guidman, maist like to ryve, 

Bethankit hums. 

Is there that o'er his French ragout, 
Or olio that wad straw a sow, 
Or fricassee wad mak her spew 

Wi' perfect sconner, 
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view 
On sic a dinner ? 

Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, 
As feckless as a wither'd rash, 
Hia spindle shank a guid whip lash, 
His nieve a nit; 
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, 
O how unfit ' 

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, 
The trembling earth resounds his tread, 
Clap in his walie nieve a blade, 

He'll mak it whissle 



BURNS' POEMS. 133 

An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sued, 
Like taps o' thrissle. 

Ye pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care, 
And dish them out their bill o' tare, 
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware 

That janps in luggies ; 
But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, 

Gie her a Haggis ! 



A DEDICATION 
TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

Expect na. Sir, in this narration, 
A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication, 
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid, 
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid, 
Because ye're surnam'd like his grace, 
Perhaps related to the race ; 
Then when I'm tir'd — and sae are ye, 
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie, 
Set up a face, how I stop short, 
For fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do — maun do, Sir, wi' them wha 
Maun please the great folk for a wamefou ; 
For me ! sae laigh I needna now, 
For, Lord be thankit, 1 can "plough, 
And when I downa yoke a naig, 
Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg ; 
Sae I shall say, an 1 that's nae flatt'rin, 
It's just sic poet, an' sic patron. 

The Poet, some guid angle help him, 
Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him, 



134 BURNS' POEMS. 



iy do 
ily he 



But only he's no just begun yet. 

The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me, 
I winnalie, come what will o'rae) 
On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be, 
He's just — nae better than he should be. 

I readily and freely grant, 
He downa see a poor man want ; 
What's no his ain he winna tak it, 
What ance he says, he winna break it ; 
Ought he can lend he'll no refus't, 
Till aft his guidness is abus'd : 
And rascals whyles that do him wrang, 
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang : 
As master, landlord, husband, father, 
He does na fail his part in either. 

But then, na thanks to him for a' that, 
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that ; 
It's naething but a milder feature, 
Of our poor, sinfu', corrupt nature ! 
Ye' 11 get the best o' moral works, 
Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, 
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, 
Wha never heard of orthodoxy, 
That he's the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word and deed, 
It's no thro' terror of d-mn-tion ; 
It's just a carnal inclination. 

Morality, thou deadly bane, 
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain! 
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is 
In moral mercy, truth, and justice ! 

No — stretch a point to catch a plack , 
Abuse a brother to his back ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 135 

Sw.il thro 1 a winnock frae a wh-re, 
Bui point the rake that taks the door: 
lie to the poor like onie whunstane, 
\ud haud their noses to the grunstane, 
1'iy every art o' legal thieving ; 
\ o matter, stick to sound believing. 

Learn three-mile pray'rs, and half-mile graces, 
Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang wry faces; 
< J runt up a solemn, lengthened groan, 
And damn a' parties but your own ; 
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, 
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. 

O ye wha leave the springs of C-lv-n, 
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin ! 
Ye sons of heresy and error, 
Veil some day squeal in quaking terror ! 
When vengeance draws the sword in wrath, 
And in the fire throws the sheath; 
When Ruin, with his sweeping besom, 
Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him: 
While o'er the harp pale mis'ry moans, 
And strikes the ever deep'ning tones, 
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ! 

Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, 
I maist forgat my dedication ; 
But when divinity comes cross me, 
My readers still are sure to lose me. 

So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapor, 
But I maturely thought it proper, 
When a 1 my work I did review, 
To dedicate them, Sir, to You : 
Because (ye need na tak it ill) 
I thought them something like yoursel. 

Then patronize them wi' your favor, 
And your petitioner shall ever — 



136 BURNS' POEMS. 

I had amaist said, ever pray, 

But that's a word I need na say : 

For prayin I hae little skill o't ; 

I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't; 

But I'se repeat each poor man's prayer, 

That kens or hears about you, Sir — 

" May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark, 
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk ! 
May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart, 
For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! 
May K******'s far honor d name 
Lang beet his hymeneal dame, 
Till H*******'s, at least a dizen, 
Are frae their nuptial labors risen ; 
Five bonnie lasses round their table, 
And seven braw fellows, stout an' able 
To serve their king and country weel, 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel! 
May health and peace, with mutual rays, 
Shine on the evening o' his days ; 
Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe, 
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, 
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow!" 

I will not wind a lang conclusion, 
Wi' complementary effusion : 
But whilst your wishes and endeavors 
Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favora, 
I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, 
Your much indebted, humble servant. 

But if (which Pow'rs above prevent!) 
That iron-hearted carl, Want, 
Attended in his grim advances, 
By sad mistake and black mischances, 
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, 
Ma'.ie you as poor a dog as I am, 



BURNS POEMS, 137 

Your humble servant then no more ; 

For v/ho would humbly serve the poor! 

But by a poor man's hopes in Heav'n! 

VVhile recollection's pow'r is given, 

If, in the vale of humble life, 

The victim sad of fortune's strife, 

I, thro' the tender gushing tear, 

Should recognize my master dear, 

If friendless, low, we meet together, 

Then, Sir, your hand, — my fr iend and brot her. 



TO A LOUSE, 

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY's BONNBT AT 
CHURCH. 

Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie 
Your impudence protects you sairly ! 
I canna say but ye strunt rarely, 

Owre gauze and lace j 
Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place. 
Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner, 
Detested, shunn'd by saint an' sinner, 
How dare ye set your fit upon her, 

Sae fine a lady ! 
Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner 

On some poor body. 
Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle ; 
Where ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle 
Wi 1 ither kindred, jurnpin cattle, 

In shoals and nations ; 
Whare horn or bane ne'er dare unsettle 

Your thick plantations. 
Now haud ye there, ye're out o' sight, 
Below the fatt'rils, snug an' tight : 



138 BURNS' POEMS. 

Na, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be right 

Fill ye'vegot on it, 
The vera tapmost, tow'ring height 

0' Miss's bomiet. 
My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose otil, 
As plump, and gray as onie grozet ; 
for some rank, mercurial rozet, 

Or fell, red smeddum, 
I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o 1 t, 

Wad dress your droddum! 

I wad na been surpris'd to spy 
You on an auld wife's flainen toy ; 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 

On's wyliecoat ; 
But Miss's fine Lunardi! fie, 

How dare ye do't ! 
Jenny, dinna toss your head, 
An' set your beauties a' ahead ! 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

That blastie's makin ! 
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread, 
Are notice takin ' 
O wad some pow'r the giftie gie us, 
To see oursels as others see us ! 
It wad frae monie a blunder free us 

And foolish notion : 
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, 
And ev'n Devotion ! 



ADDRESS TO EDINBUBGH. 
I. 

Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 
All hail thy palaces and tow'rs. 



BURNS' POEMS. 139 

Where once beneath a monarch's feet 
Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs! 

From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, 
As on the banks of Ayr 1 stray'd, 

And singing, lone, the hng'ring hours, 
I shelter in thy honor'd shade. 

II. 

Here wealth still swells the golden tide, 

As busy trade his labor plies ; 
There architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendor rise ; 
Here justice, from her native skies, 

High wields her balance and her rod ; 
There learning, with his eagle eyes, 

Seeks science in her coy abode. 

III. 

Thy Sons, Edina, social, kind, 

With open arms the stranger hail ; 
Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind, 

Above the narrow, rural vale; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 

Or modest merit's silent claim ; 
And never may their sources fail ! 

And never envy blot their name ! 

IV. 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn ! 

Gay as the gilded summer sky, 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, 

Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy ! 
Fair B strikes th' adoring eye, 

Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine ! 
I see the sire of love on high, 

And own his works indeed divine ! 



140 BURNS' POEMS. 

V. 

There, watching high the least alarms, 

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar ; 
Like some bold vet'ran, gray in armx. 

And mark'd with many a seamy scar. 
The pond'rous walls and massy bar, 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock, 
Have oft withVood assailing war, 

And oft repell'd the invader's shock. 
VI. 
With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, 

I view that noble, stately dome, 
Where Scotia's kings of other years, 

Fam'd heroes ! had their royal home : 
Alas! how chang'd the times to come ' 

Their royal name low hi the dust ! 
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam ! 

Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just! 
VII. 
Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 

Whose ancestors, in days of yore, 
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : 
Ev'n /, who sing in rustic lore, 

Haply my sires have left their shed, 
And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar, 

Bold-following when your fathers led ! 
VIII. 
Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly -scatter' d flow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honor'd shade. 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 141 

EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, 

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. 

APRIL 1st., 1789. 

While briers and woodbines budding green. 
An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en, 
An 1 morning poussie whiddin seen, 

Inspire my muse, 
This freedom in an unknown frien', 
I pray excuse. 

On fasten-een we had a rockin, 
To ca' the crack and weave our stockin ; 
And there was muckle fun an' jokin, 

Ye need na doubt ; 
At length we had a hearty yokin 
At sang about. 

There was ae sang, amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleased me best, 
That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife : 
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, 

A' to the life. 

I've scarce heard ought describes sae weel, 
What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel ; 
Thought I, " Can this be Pope, or Steele, 

Or Beattie's wark !" 
fhey tald me 'twas an odd kind chiel 
About Muirkirk. 

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, 
And sae about nim there I spier' t 
Then a' that ken't him round declar'd 

He had ingine, 
That nane exceil'd it, few cam neart, 
It was sae fine. 



149 BURNS' P0EM3. 

That set him to a pint of ale, 
An' either douce or merry tale, 
Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel, 

Or witty catches, 
Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, 

He had few matches. 

Then up I gat, an' swoor an' aith, 
Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and graith, 
Or die a cadger pownie's death, 

At some dyke-back, 
A pint an' gill I'd gie them b,aith 

To hear your crack. 

But, first an' foremost, I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
I to the crambo-jingle fell, 

Tho' rude an 1 rough, 
Yet crooning to a body's sel, 

Does well enough. 

I am nae poet, in a sense, 
But just a rhymer, like, by chance, 
An' hae to learning nae pretence, 

Yet, what the matter f 
Whene'er my muse does on me glance, 

I jingle at her. 

Your critic-folk may cock their nose, 
And say, " How can you e'er propose, 
You wha ken hardly verse frae -prose, 

To mak a sang ? 
But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 

Ye're maybe wrang. 

What's a' your jargon o' your schools, 
Your Latin names for horns an 1 stools ; 
If honest nature made you fools, 

*. What sairs your grammar* ; 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 143 

Ye'd better ta'en up spades and shools, 

Or knappin hammers. 

A set o' dull conceited hashes, 
Confuse their brains in college classes ! 
They gang in stirks, and come out asses, 
Plain truth to speak ; 
An' syne they think to climb Parnassus 
By dint o' Greek! 

Gie me ae spark o 1 Nature's fire, 
That's a 1 the learning I desire ; 
Then tho 1 1 drudge thro' dub an' mire 

At pleugh or cart, 
My muse, tho' hamely in attire, 

May touch the heart. 

for a spunk o' Allans glee, 
Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee, 
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be, 

If I can hit it ! 
That would be lear eneugh for me, 
If I could get it. 

Now, Sir, if ve hae friends enow, 
Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are few, 
Vet, if your catalogue be fou, 

I'se no insist, 
But gif ye want ae friend that's true, 

I'm on your list. 

1 winna blaw about mysel ; 
As ill I like my fauts to tell ; 

But friends, and folk that wish me well, 

They sometimes roose me, 

Tho' I maun own, as monie still 

As far abuse me. 

There's ae weefaut they whyles lay to me, 
I like the lasses — Gude forgie me ! 



144 BURN* POEMS. 

For monie a plack they wheedle frae me, 
At dance or fair ; 

May be some ither thing they gie me 

They weel can spare. 

But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, 
I should be proud to meet you there ; 
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care, 

If we forgather, 
An' hae a swap o' rhymin-ware 

Wi' ane anither. 

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, 
An' kirsen him wi' reekin water ; 
Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter, 
To cheer our heart ; 
An' faith we'se be acquainted better 
Before we part. 

A wa, ye selfish, warly race, 
Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, 
Ev'n love an' friendship, should give place 

To catch-the-ylack ; 
I dinna like to see your face, 

Nor hear you crack. 

But ye whom social pleasure charms, 
Whose heart the tide of kindness warms, 
Who hold your being on the terms, 

Each aid the others', 
Come to my bowl, come to my arms, 

My friends, my brothers 

But to conclude my Iang epistle, 
As my auld pen's worn to the grissle, 
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, 

Who am, most fervent, 
While I can either sing or whissle, 

Your friend and servant. 



BURNS' POEMS. 14& 

TO THE SAME. 

APRIL 21st, 1785. 

While new-ca'd kye rout at the stake, 
An* pownies reek in pleugh or braik, 
This hour on e'enin's edge I take, 

To own I'm debtor 
To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, 

For his kind letter. 

Forjesket sair, with weary legs, 
Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, 
Or dealing thro' amang the naigs 

Their ten-hours' bite, 
My awkart muse sair pleads and begs 

I would na write. 

The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie, 
She's saft at best, and something lazy, 
Quo' she, "Ye ken, we've been sae busy, 
This month an' mair, 
That fouth my head is grown right dizzie, 
An' something sair." 

Her dowff excuses pat me mad ; 
" Conscience," says I, " ye thowless jad ; 
I'll write, an' that a hearty bland, 

This vera night ; 
So dinna ye affront your trade, 

But rhyme it right. 

" Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hsarta, 
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, 
Roose you sae weel for your deserts, 

In terms so friendly, 
Vet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts, 

An' thank him kindly ;" 

Sae I gat paper in a blink, 
An' down gaed stumpie in the ink : 
Q 10 



146 BURNS' POEMS. 

Quoth I, " Before I sleep a wink, 

I vow I'll close it ; 

An' if ye winna mak it clink, 

By Jove I'll prose it ;" 

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether 
In rhyme or prose, or baith thegither, 
Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neithec 

Let time mak' proof; 
But I shall scribble down some blether 

Just clean aff-loof. 

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp, 
Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp ; 
Come, kittle up your moorland harp 

Wi' gleesome touch : 
Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warp : 
She's but a b-tch. 

She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg, 
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig ; 
But, by the L — d, tho' I should beg 

Wi' lyart pow, 
I'll laugh, an 1 sing, an' shake my leg, 

As lang's I dow ! 

Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmar 
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer, 
Still persecuted by the limmer 

Frae year to year ; 
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, 
I, Bob, am here. 

Do ye envy the city Gent, 
Behint a kist to lie and sklent, 
Or purse-proud, big wi 1 cent, per cent. 

And muckle wame, 
In some bit brugh to represent 

A Bailie's name t 



BURNS' POEMS. 147 

Or is't the paughty feudal Thane, 
Wi' ruffl'd sark an 1 glancin' cane, 
Wha thinks himsel na sheep-shank bane, 

But lordly stalks, 
While caps and bonnets affare ta^en, 

As by he walks ? 
"0 Thou wha gies us each guid gift! 
Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift, 
Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift, 

Thro' Scotland wide ; 
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, 

In a 1 their pride! 11 

Were this the charter of our state, 
"On pain o' hell be rich an' great," 
Damnation would then be our fate, 

Beyond remead ; 
But, thanks to Heav'n! that's no the gate 

We learn our creed. 

For thus the royal mandate ran, 
When first the human race began, 
"The scocial, friendly, honest man, 
Whate'er he be, 
'Tis he fulfills great Nature's plan, 

An' none but Ae .'" 

O mandate glorious and divine ! 
The ragged followers of the Nine, 
Poor, thougtless devils ! yet may shine 

In glorious light, 
While sordid sons of Mammon's line, 
Are dark as night 
Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an 1 growl, 
Their worthless nievefu of a soul 
May in some future carcase howl, 

The forest's fright, 
Ox in some day-detesting owl 

May shun the light. 



148 BURNS' POEMS. 

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, 
To reach their native, kindred skies, 
And sing their pleasures, hopes, an' joys, 

In some mild sphere, 
Still closer knit in friendship's tie 

Each passing year. 



TO W. S*»»**N. 

OCHILTREE. 

May, 1781 

1 oat your letter, winsome Willie ; 
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ; 
Tho 1 1 maun say't, I wad be silly, 
An' unco vain, 
Should I believe my coaxin' billie, 

Your flatterin strain. 

But Pse believe ye kindly meant it, 
I sud be laith to think ye hinted 
Ironic satire, sidelin's sklented 

On my poor Musie ; 
Tho' in sic phrasin' terms yeVe penn'd it, 

I scarce excuse ye. 

My senses wad be in a creel 
Should I but dare a hope to speel 
Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertjield, 

The braes o 1 fame , 
Or Furgusson, the writer-chiel, 

A deathless name. 

(O Furgusson ! thy glorious parts 
111 suited law's dry, musty arts ! 
My curse upon your whunstane hearts. 

Ye Enbrugh Gentry ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 149 

The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes, 

Wad stow'd his pantry !) 

Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 
Or lasses gie my heart a screed, 
As whyles they're like to be my deed, 

(O sad disease !) 
I kittle up my rustic reed; 

It gies me ease. 

Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain, 
She's gotten Poets o' her ain, 
Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, 

But tune their lays, 
Till echoes a' resound again 

Her weel-sung praise. 

Nae poet thought her worth his while, 
To set her name in measured style ; 
She lay like some unkenn'd-of isle 

Beside New Holland, 
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil, 

Besouth Magellan. 
Ramsay an' famous Fuvgusson 
Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon ; 
Yarrow an' Tweed to monie a tune, 

Owre Scotland rings, 
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, 

Nae body sings. 

Th* Illissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, 
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line! 
B\x\, Willie, set your fit to mine, 

An cock your crest, 
We'll gar our streams and burnies shine 

Up wi' the best. 

We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, 
Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells, 



150 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

Her banks an' braes, her dens and dells, 

Where glorious Wallace 

Aft bure the gree, as story tells, 

Frae Southron billies. 

At Wallace" name, what Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring-tide flood! 
Oft have our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace' side, 
Sull pressing onward, red-wat-shod, 
Or glorious dy'd. 

0, Sweet are Coila's haughs an 1 woods, 
When lint-whites chant amang the buds, 
And jinkin hares, in armorous whids, 

Their loves enjoy, 
While thro 1 the braes the cushat croods 

With wailfu 1 cry ! 

Ev'n winter bleak has charms for me, 
W r hen winds rave thro 1 the naked tree; 
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary gray , 
Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, 

Dark'ning the day! 

O Nature ! a 1 thy shows an 1 forms 
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms! 
Whether the simmer kindly warms, 

Wi 1 iife an' light, 
Or winter howls, in gusty storms, 

The lang, dark night ! 

The Muse, na poet ever fand her, 
Till by himsel, he learn'd to wander 
Adown some trotting burn's meander, 

An 1 no think lang ; 
O sweet ! to stray, an 1 pensive ponder 

A heart-felt sang ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 



151 



The warly race may drudge an' drive, 
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive, 
Let me fair Nature's face descrive, 

And I, wi' pleasure, 
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive 

Bum owre their treasure. 

Fareweel, "my rhyme-composing brither! 
We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither : 
Now let us lay our heads thegither, 

In love fraternal: 
May Envy wallop in a tether, 

Black fiend, infernal! 

While highlandmen hate tolls and taxes ; 
While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxiet; 
While terra firma, on her axis 

Diurnal turns, 
Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, 

In Robert Burns. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

My memory's no worth a preen • 
I had amaist forgotten clean, 
Ye bade me write you what they mean 

By this New-Light* 
'Bout which our herds sae afthae been 

Maist like to fight. 

In days when mankind were but callana 
At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, 
They took nae pains their speech to balance. 
Or rules to gie, 

♦See note, page 45. 



<52 BURNS' POEMS. 

But spak their thoughts in plain braid lallans 
Like you or me. 

In thae auld times, they thought the moon, 
Just like a sark. or pair o' shoon, 
Wore by degrees, till her last roon, 

Gaed past their viewing, 
An' shortly after she was done, 

They got a new one. 

This past for certain, undisputed ; 
It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, 
Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it, 

An' ca'd it wrang; 
An' muckle din there was about it, 

Baith loud and lang. 

Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, 
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ; 
For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk, 

An' out o' sight, 
An' backlins-comin, to the leuk, 

She grew mair bright. 

This was deny'd, it was affirm 1 d ; 
The herds an 1 hissels were alarm'd : 
The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an 1 storm'd, 

That beardless laddies 
Should think they better were inform 'd 

Than their auld daddies. 

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 
Frae words an' aithe to clours an' nicks ; 
An' monie a fallow gat his licks, 

Wi' hearty crunt ; 
An* some, to learn them for their tricks, 

Were hang'd an 1 burnt. 

This game was play'd in monie lands, 
An' auU-light caddies bure sic hands, 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 153 

That faith, the youngsters took the sands 
Wi' nimble shanks. 

The lairds forbade, by strict commands, 
Sic bluidy pranks. 

But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, 
Kolk thought them ruin'd, stick-an'-stowe, 
Till now amaist on ev'ry knowe, 

Ye'll find ane plac'd ; 
An' some, their new-light fair avow, 

Just quite barefac'd. 

Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin ; 
Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin ; 
Mysel, I've even seen them greetin 

Wi' grinin spite, 
To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on 

By word an' write. 

But shortly they will cowe the louns: 
Some auld-light herds in neebor towns 
Are mind't, in things thy ca 1 balloons, 

To tak a flight, 
An' stay a month amang the moons 

An 1 see them right. 

Guid observation they will gie them ; 
An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them 
The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them, 

Just i' their pouch, 
W when the new-light billies see them, 
I think they'll crouch! 

Sae, ye observe that a 1 this clatter 
Ls naething but a "moonshine matter;" 
But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter 

In logic tulzie, 
I hope, we bardies ken some better 

■o Than mind sic brulzie. 



154 BURNS' POEMS. 

EPISTLE TO J. R**#**», 
ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. 

O rough, rude, ready-witted R****** f 
The wale o' cocks for fun an drinkin ! 
There's mony godly folks are thinkin, 

Your dreams* an' tricks 
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin, 

Straught to aula Nick's. 
Ye hae sae monie cracks an 1 cants, 
And in your wicked drunken rants, 
Ye mak a devil o' the saunts, 

An' fill them fou ; 
And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, 
Are a' seen thro'. 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 
That holy robe, dinna tear it ! 
Spar 't for their sakes wha aften wear it, 

The lads in black ! 
But your curst wit, when it comes near it, 
Rives 't aff their back. 

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, 
It's just the blue-gown badge an' claithing 
O 1 saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething 

To ken them by, 
Frae ony unregenerate heathen 

Like you or I. 

I've sent ye home some rhyming ware, 
A' that I bargain'd for, an 1 mair; 
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, 

I will expect 
Yon sang t ye' 11 sen't wi' cannie care, 
And no neglect. 

* A certain humorous dream of his was then nu 
king a noise in the country-side. 
t A song Le had promised the Author. 



BURNS' POEMS. 155 

Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing ! 
My muse dow scarcely spread hei wing ' 
I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring, 

An' danc'd my fill ! 
I'd better gane an' sair'd the king, 

At Bunker's Hill. 

'Twas ae night lately in my fun, 
I gaed a roving wi' the gun, 
An 1 brought a paUrick to the grun, 
A bonnie hen, 
And, as the twilight was begun, 

Thought nane wad ken. 

The poor wee thing was little hurt ; 
I straikit it a wee for sport, 
Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't ; 

But, deil-ma-care ! 
Somebody tells the poacher-court 

The hale affair. 

Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note, 
That sic a hen had got a shot ; 
I was suspected for the plot ; 

I scorn' d to lie , 
So gat the whissle o' my groat, 

An' pay't the fee. 

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, 
An 1 by my pouther an' my hail, 
An' by my hen, an' by her tail, 

I vow an' swear ! 
The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale, 

For this, neist year. 

As soon's the clockin-time is by, 
An' the wee pouts begin to cry, 
L — d, Fse hae sportin by an 1 by, 

For my gowd guinea : 



156 BURNS' POEMS. 

Tho I should herd the buckskin kye 

For't in Virginia. 
Trovvth, they had muckle for to blame ! 
Twas neither broken wing nor limb, 
But twa-three draps about the wame 

Scarce thro 1 the feathers ; 
An' baith a yellow George to claim, 

An 1 thole their blethers • 
It pits me ay as mad's a hare ; 
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair ; 
But pennyworths again is fair, 

When time's expedient : 
Meanwhile I am. respected Sir, 

Your most obedient. 



JOHN BARLEYCORN,* 

A BALLAD. 
I. 

There were three kings into the east, 
Three kings both great and high, 

An' they hae sworn a solemn oath 
John Barleycorn should die. 

II. 

They took a plow and plow'd him down, 

Put clods upon his head, 
And they hae sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn was dead. 

III. 
But cheerful spring came kindly on, 

And showers began to fall : 
• This is partly composed on the plan of an old ! 
toown by the same name. 



BURNS' POEMS. 157 

John Barleycorn got up again, 
And sore surprised them all. 

IV. 

The sultry suns of summer came, 

And he grew thick and strong, 
His head weel arm'd wi 1 pointed spears, 

That no one should him wrong. 



The sober autumn enter'd mild, 
When he grew wan and pale ; 

His bending joints and drooping head 
Show'd he began to fail. 

VI. 

His color sicken d more and more, 

He faded into age ; 
And then his enemies began 

To show their deadly rage. 

VII. 

They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp, 

And cut him by the knee ; 
Then ty'd him fast upon a cart, 

Like a rogue for forgerie. 

VIII. 

They laid him down upon his back, 
And cudgel'd him full sore ; 

They hung him up before the storm, 
And turnd him o'er and o'er. 

IX. 

They filled up a darksome pit 
With water to the brim, 



158 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

They heaved in John Barleycorn, 
There let him sink or swim. 

X. 

They laid him out: upon the floor, 

To work him farther wo, 
And still, as signs of life appear'd, 

They toss 1 d him to and fro. 

XI. 
They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, 

The marrow of his bones ; 
But a miller us'd him worst of all, 

For he crush' d him between two stonea 

XII. 
And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood, 

And drank it round and round ; 
And still the more and more they drank, 

Their joy did more abound. 

XIII. 
John Barleycorn was a hero bold, 

Of noble enterprise, 
For if you do but taste his blood, 

'Twill make your courage rise. 

XIV. 
'Twill make a man forget his wo , 

'Twill heighten all his joy : 
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing. 

Tho' the tear were in her eye. 

XV. 
Then let us toast John Barleycorn, 

Each man a glass in hand ; 
And may his great posterity 

Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 159 

A FRAGMENT, 

Tune—" Gillicrankie," 

I. 

When Guilford good our pilot stood, 

And did our helm thraw, man, 
Ae night, at tea, began a plea, 

Within America, man : 
Then up they gat the maskin-pat, 

And in the sea did jaw, man ; 
An' did nae less, in full congress, 

Than quite refuse our law, man. 

II. 

Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, 

I wat he was na slaw, man ; 
Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn, 

And Carleton did ca', man : 
But yet, what reck, he, at Quebec, 

Montgomery-like did fa', man, 
Wi' sword in hand, before his band, 

Amang his en'mies a', man. 

III. 
Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage 

Was kept at Boston ha\ man ; 
Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe 

For Philadelphia, man: 
Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin 

Guid christian blood to draw, man ; 
But at New- York, wi' knife an' fork, 

Sir-loin he hacked sma\ man. 

IV. 

Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip, 

Till Eraser brave did fa', man ; 
Then lost his way, ae misty day, 

In Saratoga shaw, man. 



160 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

Cornwollis fought as lang's he dought, 
An' did the buckskins claw, man ; 

But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save, 
He hung it to the wa\ man. 

V. 
Then Montague, an' Guilford too, 

Began to fear a fa\ man ; 
And Sackville doure, wha stood the stoure, 

The German chief to thraw, man : 
For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk, 

Nae mercy had at a\ man ; 
And Charlie Fox threw by the box, 

An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. 

VI. 

Then Rockingham took up the game , 

Till death did on him ca\ man ; 
When Shelbume meek held up his cheek, 

Conform to gospel law, man ; 
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise, 

They did his measures thraw, man, 
For North an 1 Fox united stocks, 

An 1 bore him to the wa\ man. 

VII. 
Then clubs an 1 hearts were Charlie's cartes, 

He swept the stakes awa', man, 
Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race, 

Led him a sair faux pas, man: 
The Saxon lads, wi 1 loud placads, 

On Chatham's boy did ca", man ; 
An Scotland drew her pipe an 1 blew, 

" Up, Willie, waur them a', man!" 

VIII. 
Behind the throne then GrenvilWs gone, 
A secret word or twa, man ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 161 

While slee Dundas arous'd the class 
Be-north the Roman wa\ man: 

An' Chatham's wraith, in heave »ly graith, 
(Inspired bardies saw, man) 

Wi' kindling eyes, cry'd, " Willie, rise ! 
Would I hae fear'd them a', man ?" 

IX. 
But, word an' blow. North, Fox, and Co. 

GowfT'd Willie like a ba,' man, 
Till Suthron raise, and coost their claise 

Behind him in a raw, man ; 
An' Caledon threw by the drone, 

An' did ner whittle draw, man ; 
An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' blood, 

To make it guid in law, man. 
***** 



SONG, 
Tune— " Corn rigs are bonnie." 

I. 

It was upon a Lammas night, 

When corn rigs are bonnie, 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held awa to Annie: 
The time rlew by wi 1 tentless heed, 

Till 'tween the late and early ; 
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed, 

To see me thro 1 the barley. 

II. 

The sky was blue, the wind was still 
The moon was shinging clearly ; 
11 



162 BURNS POEMS. 

I set me down, wi' right good will, 
Amang the rigs o' barley : 

I kenn't her heart was a' my ain; 
I lov'd her most sincerely ; 

I kiss'd her owre and owre again 
Amang the rigs o' barley. 

III. 
I lock'd her in my fond embrace , 

Her heart was beating rarely : 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amang the rigs o 1 barley ! 
But by the moon and stars so bright, 

That shone that hour so clearly, 
She ay shall bless that happy night, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

IV. 

I hae been blythe wi 1 comrades dear i 

I hae been merry drinking ; 
I hae been joyfu' gathrin gear; 

I hae been happy thinkin : 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Tho' three times doubled fairly, 
That happy night was worth them a , 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 



Corn rigs, an" 1 barley rigs, 
ArC corn rigs are bonnie t 

m ne'er forget that happy night, 
Awtang the rigs wV Annie. 



BURNS' P0EM8. 163 

SONG. 

COMPOSED IN AUGUST. 

TisNE— "I had a horse, I had nae mair." 

I. 

Now westlin winds, and slaught'ring guns 

Bring autumn's pleasant weather; 
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, 

A mang the blooming heather; 
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, 

Delights the weary farmer ; [night, 

And the moon shines bright, when I rove at 
To muse upon my charmer. 

II. 

The partridge loves the fruitful fella ; 

The plover loves the mountains ; 
The woodcock, haunts the lonely dells , 

The soaring hern the fountains : 
Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves, 

The path of man to shun it ; 
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, 

The spreading thorn the linnet. 

III. 
Thus every kind their pleasure find, 

The savage and the tender ; 
Some social join, and leagues combine; 

Some solitary wander : 
Avaunt ! away ! the cruel sway, 

Tyrannic man's dominion ; 
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry, 

The flutt'ring, gory pinion ! 

IV. 

But Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear, 
Thick flies the skimming swallow j 



164 BURNS' POEMS. 

The sky is blue, the fields in view, 
All fading, green and yellow : 

Come let us stray our gladsome way, 
And view the charms of nature ; 

The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, 
And every happy creature. 

V. 

Well gently walk, and sweetly talk, 

Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, 

Swear how I love thee dearly : 
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow're, 

Not autumn to the farmer, 
So dear can be as thou to me, 

My fair, my lovely charmer ! 



SONG. 
Tumi— " My Nannie, O." 
I. 
Behind yon hills where Lugar * flows, 
'Mang moors and mosses many, O! 
The wintry sun the day has clos'd, 
And I'll awa to Nannie O. 

II. 

The westlin wind blaws loud an' shrill! 

The night's baith mirk an' rainy. ; 
But I'll get my plaid, an 1 out I'll steal, 

An' owre the hills to Nannie, O. 

III. 
My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young ; 
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, : 
•Originally, Stinchar. 



BURNS' POEMS. 165 

May ill befa' the flattering ongue 
That wad beguile my Nnme, O. 

IV. 
Her face is fair, her heart is true, 

As spotless as she's bonnie, O: 
The op'ning gowan, wet wi 1 dew, 

Nae purer is than Nannie, O. 

V. 

A country lad is my degree, 

An' few there be that ken me, O ; 

But what care I how few they be, 
I'm welcome ay to Nannie, O. 

VI. 

My riches a's my penny-fee, 
An' I maun guide it cannie, ; 

But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, 
My thoughts are a' my Nannie, 0. 

VII. 
Our auld guidman delights to view 

His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, C ; 
But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleu^h, 

An' has nae care but Nannie, O. 

VIII. 
Come weel, come wo, I care na by, 

I'll tak what Heav'n will sen' me, O. 
Nae ither care in life have I, 

But live, an' love my Nannie, O. 



56 BURNS' POEMS. 

OREEM GROW THE RASHES, 

A FRAGMENT. 
CHORUS. 

Green grow the rashes, ! 

Green grow the rashes, ! 
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend, 

Are spent amang the lasses, ! 

I. 
There's nought but care on ev'ry han\ 

In ev'ry hour that passes, O ; 
What signifies the life o' man, 
An' 'twere na for the lasses, O. 

Green grow, <£«. 

The warly race may riches chase, 

An' riches still may fly them, O ; 
An' tho' at last they catch them fast, 
Their hearts ne'er can enjoy them, 0. 
Green grow, &-c. 
III. 
But gie me a canny hour at e'en, 
My arms about my dearie, C , 
An' warly cares, an' warly men, 
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O ! 

Green grow, A-c. 
IV. 

For you sae douse, ye sneeY at this, 
Ye' re nought but senseless asses, O . 

The wisest man the warl' e'er saw, 
He dearly lov'd the lasses, 0. 

Green grow, <$<. 

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes, O : 



BURNS' POEMS. 167 

y'd on man, 
5 lasses, O. 
Green grow, <J-c. 



Her 'prentice harT she try'd on man, 
An then she made the lasses, O. 



SONG. 

Tuicb — " Jockey's Gray Breeks * 
I. 

Again rejoicing nature sees 

Her robe assume its vernal hues, 

Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 
All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 

CHORUS.* 

And maun 1 still on Meniei doat, 
And bear the scorn that's in her e'e t 

For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk, 
An' it winna let a body be ! 

II. 
i vain to me the cowslips blaw, 

n vain to me the vi'lets spring ; 
I> 'ain to me, in glen or shaw, 
^he mavis and the lint white sing. 

And maun I still, cf-c. 

III. 

The merry plowboy cheers his team, 
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks, 
But life to me '8 a weary dream, 
A dream of ane that never wauks. 

And maun 1 still, <£c. 
* This ehorus is part of a song composed by a gen- 
tleman in Edinburgh, a particular friend of the au- 
thor's, 
t Menie is the common abbreviation of Mariamn*. 



168 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

IV. 

The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, 

The stately swan majestic swims, 
And every thing is blest but I. 

And maun I still, <J-c. 

V. 
The sheep -herd steeks his faulding slap, 
And owre the moorlands whistles shill, 
Wi' wild, unequal, wand' ring step 
I met him on the dewy hill. 

And maun 1 still, $c. 

VI. 

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, 
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side, 

And mounts and sings on fluttering wings, 
A wo-worn ghaist I hameward glide. 

And maun 1 still, $c. 

VII. 
Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, 

And raging bend the naked tree ; 
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, 

When nature all is sad like me ! 

CHORUS. 

And maun I still on Menie doat, 
And bear the scorn that's in her c'e ? 

For it's jet, jet black, an" 1 W s like a hawk, 
An 1 it winna let a body be* 

•We cannot presume to alter any of the poems of 
our bard, and more especially those primed under hii 
own direction : yet it is to be regretted that this cho 
rus. which is not of his own composition, sliced be 
attached to these fine stanzas, as it perpetually .nter* 
rupis the train of sentiment which they excite. Ed 



BURNS' POEMS. 



169 



SONG. 
Tons— "Roslin Castle." 
I. 
The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, 
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, 
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, 
[ see it driving o'er the plain ; 
The hunter now has left the moor, 
The scatter'd coveys meet secure, 
While here I wander, prest with care, 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 

II. 
The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn 
By early Winter's ravage torn ; 
Across "her placid, azure sky, 
She sees the scowling tempest fly ; 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, 
I think upon the stormy wave, 
Where many a danger I must dare, 
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

III. 

'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 
'Tis not that fatal deadly shore ; 
Tho' death in every shape appear, 
The wretched have no more to fear: 
But round my heart the ties are bound, 
That heart transpierc'd with many a wound 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, 
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. 
IV. 

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales, 
Her heathy moors and winding vales ; 
The scenes where wretched fancy rove», 
Pursuing past, unhappy loves! 



170 BURNS' POEMS. 

Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes! 
My peace with these, my love with those — 
The bursting tears my heart declare, 
Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr. 



SONG. 

Tune—" Guilderoy." 

I. 

From thee, Eliza, I must go, 

And from my native shore ; 
The cruel fates between us throw 

A boundless ocean's roar : 
But boundless oceans, roaring wide, 

Between my love and me, 
They never, never can divide 

My heart and soul from thee. 

II. 

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, 

The maid that I adore ! 
A boding voice is in mine car, 

We part to meet no more ! 
But the last throb that leaves my heart, 

While death stands victor by, 
That throb, Eliza, is thy part, 

And thine the latest sigh ' 



BURNS' POEMS 171 

THE FAREWELL 

TO THE 

BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES* LODGE, 

TARBOLTON. 

Tunk— " Good night, and joy be wi' you a't" 

Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu ! 

Dear brothers of the mystic tye ! 
Ye favor'd, ye enlightened few, 

Companions of my social joy ! 
Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, 

Pursuing Fortune's slidd 1 ry ba\ 
With melting heart, and brimful eye, 

I'll mind you still, tho' far awa\ 

II. 

Oft have I met your social band, 

And spent the cheerful, festive night ; 
Oft, honor'd with supreme command, 

Presided o'er the sons of light : 
And by that hieroglyphic bright, 

Which none but craftsmen ever saw ! 
Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa\ 

III. 

May freedom, harmony, and love, 

Unite us in the grand design, 
Beneath th' omniscient eye above, 

The glorious Architect divine,! 
That you may keep th' unerring line, 

Still rising by the plummet's law, 
Till order bright completely shine, 

Shall be my pray'r when far awa\ 



172 BURNS' POEMS. 

IV. 

And you, farewell ! whose merits claim, 

Justly, that highest badge to wear ! 
Heav'n bless your honor'd, noble name, 

To Masonry and Scotia dear ! 
A last request permit me here, 

When yearly ye assemble a', 
One round, I ask it with a tear, 

To him, the Bard that's far awa\ 



SONG, 
1 Prepare, my dear brethren, to the Taver» 
let's fly." 

I. 

No churchman am I for to rail and to write, 
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight, 
No sly man of business contriving a snare, 
For a big-belly'd bottle's the whole of my care. 

II. 

The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow ; 
I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low ; 
But a club of good fellows, like those that are 

here, 
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. 

III. 

Here passes the squire on his brother — his horse ; 
There centum per centum, the cit, with his 

purse ; 
But see you the Crown, how it waves in the air. 
There, a big-belly'd bottle still ceases my care. 



BURNS' POEMS. 173 

IV. 
The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ; 
For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; 
I found that old Solomon proved it fair, 
That a big-belly' d bottle's a cure for all care. 

V. 
I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 
A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ;— 
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stair*. 
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. 

VI. 
'Life's cares they are comforts,"* — a maxim 

laid down 
By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the 

black gown ? 
ind faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair ; 
For a big-belly'd bottle's a heav'n of care. 
A Stanza added in a Mason Lodge. 
Then fill up a bumper, and make it o'erflow, 
And honors masonic prepare for to throw ; 
May every true brother of the compass and 

square 
Have a big-belly'd bottle when harass'd with 



WRITTEN IN 

FRIARS-OARSE HERMITAGE, 

ON NITH-S1DK. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead,— 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deckt in silken stole, 
Grave these counsels on thy soul. 
* Young's Night Thought!. 



174 BURNS' POEMS. 

Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost; 
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour, 
Fear not clouds will always lower. 

As youth and love with sprightly chance 
Beneath thy morning-star advance, 
Pleasure with her siren air 
May delude the thoughtless pair ; 
Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup, 
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. 

As thy day grows warm and high, 
Life's meridian flaming nigh, 
Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 
Life's proud summit wouldst thou scale f 
Check thy climbing step, elate, 
Evils lurk in felon wait : 
Dangers, cagle-pinion'd, bold, 
Soar around each cliffy hold, 
While cheerful peace, with linnet song, 
Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of ev'ning close, 
Beck'ning thee to long repose; 
As life itself becomes disease, 
Seek the chimney-neuk of ease. 
There ruminate with sober thought, 
On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought, 
And teach the sportive younkers round, 
Saws of experience, sage and sound. 
Say, man's truth, genuine estimate, 
The grand criterion of his fate, 
Is not, Art thou so high or low ? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow f 
Did many talents gild thy span ? 
Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? 
Tell them, and press it on their mind, 
As thOU thyself must shortly find, 



BURNS' POEMS. 175 

The smile or frown of awful Heav'n 
To virtue or to vice is giv'n. 
Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, 
There solid self-enjoyment lies ; 
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways, 
Lead to the wretched, vile, and base. 

Thus resign'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep ; 
Sleep, whence thou shah ne'er awake, 
Night, where dawn shall never break. 
Till future life, future no more, 
To light and joy the good restore, 
To light and joy unknown before. 

Stranger, go ! Heav'n be thy guide ! 
Quod the beadsman of Nith-side. 



ODE, 

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF 

MRS. OF . 

Dweller in yon dungeon dark, 
Hangman of creation ! mark 
Who in widow-weeds appears, 
Laden with unhonor'd years, 
Noosing with care a bursting purse, 
Baited with many a deadly curse ! 



View the wither'd beldam's face- 
Can thy keen inspection trace 
Aught of humanity's sweet, melting grace! 
Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, 
Pity's flood there never rose. 



176 BURNS' POEMS. 

See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, 

Hands that took — but never gave. 

Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 

Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest 

She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest. 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 
(Awhile forbear, ye tort'ring fiends,) 
Seest thou whose step unwilling hither bends ! 

No fallen angel, hurFd from upper skies ; 
'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, 
Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, 

She, tardy hell-ward plies. 

EPODE. 

And are they of no more avail, 
Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a year ? 

In other worlds can Mammon fail, 
Omnipotent as he is here? 
O, bitter mockty of the pompous bier, 
While down the wretched vital vart is driv'n ! 

The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience 
clear, 
Expires in rags unknown, and goes to Heav'n. 



ELEGY 

OH 

CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON, 

t GENTLEMAN WHO HELD A PATENT FOR HIS HO* 
ORS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD. 

But ,iow his radiant course is run, 
For Matthew's course was bright ; 

Hi* soul was like the glorious sun, 
A matchless, Heav'nly Light 1 



BURNS' POEMS. 177 

O death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! 
The meikle devil wi 1 a woodie 
Haurl thee harne to his black smiddie, 

O'er hurcheon hides, 
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 

Wi' thy auld sides ! 

He's gane, he's gane ! he's frae us torn, 
The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 
Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel shall mourn 

By wood and wild, 
Where, haply, pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exil'd. 

^ Ye hills, near neebors o 1 the starns, 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns, 

. . Where echo slumbers, 

Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns. 
My wailing numbers. 

Mourn, ilk a grove the cushat kens ! 
Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens ! 
Ye burnies, whimplin down your glens, 

Wi' toddlin din, 
Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, 
Frae lin to lin. 

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lee , 
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie, 

In scented bow'rs , 
Ye roses on your thorny tree, 

The first o' flow'rs. 

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 
Droops with a diamond at his head, 
At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed, 
,., V th' rustling gale, 



178 BURNS' POEMS 

Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, 

Come join my wail. 

Mourn, ye wee songsters o 1 the wood ; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; 
Ye curlews calling thro 1 a clud ; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood ; 
He's gane forever ! 

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals, 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Rair for his sake. 

Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, 
'Mang fields o' flowr'ing clover gay ; 
And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cauld shore, 
Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, 

Wham we deplore. 

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r, 
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, 
What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r, 

Sets up her horn, 
Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 

Till waukrife morn • 

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! 
Oft have ye heard my canty strains : 
But now, what else for me remains 

But tales of wo; 
And frae my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year' 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : 



BURNS' POEMS. 179 

Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 

n Shoots up its head, 

n y g a y. green, flow'ry tresses shear, 

For him that's dead ' 
Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 
Thou, winter, hurling thro 1 the air 

The roaring blast, 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost ! 
Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light ' 
Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
And you, ye twinkling starnies, bright, 

My Matthew mourn ! 
tor thro your orbs he's ta'en his flight, 
Ne'er to return. 
O Henderson ; the man ! the brother ! 
And art thou gone, and gone forever ! 
And hast thou crost that unknown river, 
Life's dreary bound ! 
Like thee, where shall I find another, 
The world around ! 

Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye Great, 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 
But by the honest turf I'll wait, 

Thou man of worth ! 
And weep the ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay in earth. 



THE EPITAPH. 

Stop, passenger! my story's brief; 

And truth I shall relate, man ; 
I teii nae common tale o' grief, 

For Matthew was a great man. 



180 BURNS' POEMS. 

If thou uncommon merit hast, 

Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man; 

A look of pity hither cast, 

For Matthew was a poor man. 

If thou a noble sodger art, 

That passest by his grave, man, 

There moulders here a gallant heart, 
For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways, 
Canst throw uncommon light, man; 

Here lies wha weel had won thy praise, 
For Matthew was a bright man. 

If thou at friendship's sacred ca' 
Wad life itself resign, man ; 

Thy sympathetic tear maun fa 1 , 
For Matthew was a kind man ! 

If thou art staunch, without a stain, 
Like the unchanging blue, man ; 

This was a kinsman o' thy ain, 
For Matthew was a true man. 

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, 
And ne'er guid wine did fear, man ; 

This was thy billie, dam, and sire, 
For Matthew was a queer man. 

If ony whiggish whingin sot, 

To blame poor Matthew dare, man ; 

May dool and sorrow be his lot, 
F«r Matthew was a rare man. 



BURNS' POEMS. 181 

LAMENT 

OF 

MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, 

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. 

Now nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree, 
And spread her sheets o' daisies white 

Out o'er the grassy lea : 
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

That last in durance lies. 

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, 

Aloft on dewy wing ; 
The merle, in his noontide bow'r, 

Makes woodland echoes ring; 
The mavis mild, wi' many a note; 

Sings drowsy day to rest : 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care nor thrall oppressed. 

Now blooms the lily by the bank, 

The primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthorn's budding in the glen, 

And milk-white is the slae : 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland 

May rove their sweets amang ; 
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison Strang. 

I was the Queen o' bonnie France, 

Where happy J hae been ; 
Fu' lightly raise I in the morn, 

As blythe lay down at e'en : 
And I'm the sovereign of Scotland, 

And friony a traitor there ; 



182 BURNS' P0EM3. 

Yet here I lie in foreign bands, 
At' J never-ending care. 

But as for thee, thou false woman, 

My sister and my fae, 
Grim vengeance, yet shall whet a sword 

That thro' thy soul shall gae : 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ; 
Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of wo 

Frae woman's pitying e'e. 
My son ! my son ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortunes shine ; 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign, 

That ne'er wad blink on mine ! 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 

Or turn their hearts to thee ! 
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, 

Remember him for me ! 
! soon, to me, may summer-suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn ! 
And in the narrow house o' death 

Let winter round me rave ! 
And the next flow'rs that deck the spring, 

Bloom on my peaceful grave ! 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq., 

OF FINTRA. 

Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg, 
About to beg a pass for leave to beg ; 
Dull, listless, teased, dejected, and deprest 
Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest :) 



BURNS' POEMS. 183 

Will generous Graham list to his Poet 1 ? wail ? 
(It soothes poor misery, heark'ning to her tale.) 
And hear him curse the light he first survny'd. 
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade 1 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign ; 
Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 
The lion and the bull thy care have found, 
One shakes the forests, and one spurns the 

ground : 
Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, 
Th' envenom 'd wasp, victorious guards his cell. 
Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour, 
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power. — 
Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure ; 
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure. 
Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, 
The priest and hedgehog in their robes are snug, 
Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, 
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts. 

But oh ! thou bitter step-mother and hard. 
To thy poor, fenceless, naked, child — the Bard ! 
A thing unteachabie in world's skill, 
And half an idiot too, more helpless still. 
No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun , 
No claws to dig. his hated sight to shun ; 
No horns but those by luckless Hymen worn, 
And those, alas ! not Amalthea's horn ; 

No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trusty cut, 

Clad in rich dullness' comfortable fur, 

In naked feeling, and in aching pride, 

He bears th' unbroken blast from ev'ry side : 

Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, 

And scorpion critics careless venom dart. 

Critics — appall'd I venture on the name, 
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame, 



184 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes; 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrunp, 
By blockheads 1 daring into madness stung; 
His well- won bays, than life itself more dear, 
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must 

wear : 
Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd in the unequal strife, 
The hapless poet flounders on through life. 
Till fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd, 
And fled each muse that glorious once ingpir'd, 
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, 
Dead, even resentment, for his injured page, 
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's 

rage ! 

So, by some hedge, the gen'rous steed deceas'd 
For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast ; 
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, 
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. 

O dullness ! portion of the truly blest ! 
Calm shelter^ haven of eternal rest ! 
Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of fortune's polar frosts, or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills the golden cup, 
With sober selfish ease they sip it up : 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, 
They only wonder " some folks" do not starve. 
The grave, sage hern thus easy picks his frog, 
And thinks the mallard a sad, worthless dog. 
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, 
And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, 
And just conclude that " fools are fortune's care. 11 
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, 
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 



BURNS' POEMS. 185 

Not so the idle muses" mad-cap train, 
Not such the workings of their moon-struck 

brain ; 
In equanimity they never dwell, 
By turns in soaring heav'n, or vaulted hell. 

I dread thee, fate, relentless and severe. 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's foai ' 
Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 
Glenrairn, the truly noble, lies in dust ; 
(Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appeals, 
And left us darkling in a world of tears :) 
O ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r ! 
Fintra, my other stay, long bless and spare ! 
Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown ; 
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down ' 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path ; 
Give energy to life ; and soothe his latest breath, 
With many a filial tear circling the bed of death ! 



LAMENT 



JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills, 

By fits the sun's departing beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream ; 
Beneath a craggy steep, a bard, 

Laden with years and meikle pain, 
In loud lament bewail'd his lord. 

Whom death had all untimely ta'en. 

He lean'd him to an ancient aik, 

Whose trunk was mould' ring down with 
years ; 



186 BURNS' POEMS. 

His locks were bleached white wi' time ! 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ! 
And as he touch'd his trembling harp, 

And as he tun'd his doleful sang, 
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, 

To echo bore the notes alang. 

"Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing, 

The reliques of the vernal quire ! 
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds 

The honors of the aged year ! 
A few short months, and glad and gay, 

Again ye' 11 charm the ear and e'e ! 
But notcht in all revolving time 

Can gladness bring again to me. 

"I am a bending aged tree, 

That long has stood the wind and rain ; 
But now has come a cruel blast, 

And my last hald of earth is gane : 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; 
But I maun lie before the storm, 

And ithers plant them in my room. 

" I've seen sae mony changefu 1 years, 

On earth I am a stranger grown ; 
I wander in the ways of men, 

Alike unknowing and unknown : 
Unheard, unpitied, unreliev'd, 

I bear alane my lade o' care. 
For silent, low, on beds of dust, 

Lie a' that would my sorrows share. 

"And last (the sum of a' my greifs !) 
My noble master lies in clay ; . 

The flow'r amang our barons bold, 

His country's pride, his country's stay i 

In weary being now I pine, 
For a' the life of life is dead, 



BURNS' POEMS. 18? 

And hope has left my aged ken, 
On forward wing forever fled. 

"Awake thy last sad voice, my harp 1 

The voice of wo and wild despair ; 
Awake, resound thy latest lay, 

Then sleep in silence evermair ! 
And thou, my last, best, only friend, 

That fillest an untimely tomb, 
Accept this tribute from the bard 

Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom. 

" In poverty's low, barren vale. 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round , 
Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found'st me, like the morning sun 

That melts the fogs in limpid uir, 
The friendless bard and rustic song, 

Became alike thy fostering care. 

" ! why has worth so short a date ? 

While villains ripen gray with lime ! 
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, 

F al l in bold manhood's hardy prime ! 
Why did I live to see that day ? 

A day to me so full of wo ! 

! had I met the mortal shaft 
Which laid my benefactor low ! 

" w e britJe g room ma Y forget the bride 
Was made his wedded wife yestreen; 

The monarch may forget the crown 
That on his head an hour has been ; 

1 he mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; 
a } re member thee, Glencairn, 
And a' that thou hast done for me !" 



188 BURNS' POEMS. 

LINES 
SENT TO SIR JOHN WKITEFOORD, 

OF WHITEFOORD, BART. 
WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM. 

Thou, who thy honor as thy God rever'st, 
Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly 

fear'st, 
To thee this votive offering I impart, 
The tearful tribute of a broken heart. 
The friend thou valued'st, I the patron lov'd ; 
His worth, his honor, all the world approv'd. 
We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone, 
And tread the dreary path to that dark world 

unknown. 



TAM O'SHANTER 



Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Ruke. 
Gawin Douglas. 

When chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, 
As market-days are wearing late, 
An' folk begin to tak the gate ; 
While we sit bousing at the nappy, 
An 1 gettin fou and unco happy, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 



BURNS' POEMS. 189 

This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shanier, 
As he frae Ayr, ae night did canter, 
(Auld Ay 'v:;om ne'er a town surpasses, 
For honesi men and bonnie lasses.) 

O Tarn ! had'st thou but been sae wise, 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
She tauid thee weel thou was a skellum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou was nae sober, 
That ilka melder, wi' the miller, 
Thou sat as Iang as thou had siller ; 
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on, 
That at the L — d's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday. 
She prophesy 'd that late or soon, 
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon,, 
Or catch'd wi 1 warlocks in the mirk, 
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentie dames ! it gars me greet, 
To think how mony counsels sweet, 
How mony lengthen'd sage advices, 
The husband frae the wife despises ! 

But to our tale : Ae market night, 
Tarn had got planted unco right ; 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely , 
And at his eldow, souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 
Tarn lo'ed [lira like a vera brither ; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
The night drave on wi 1 sangs an' clatter , 
And ay the ale was growing better: 
The landlady and Tarn grew gracious ; 
Wi' favors, secret, sweet, and precious : 



190 BURNS' POEMS. 

The soute r tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tarn did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy ; 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure .- 
Kings may be blest, but Tarn was glorious, 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. 

But pleasures are like poppies spread, 
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed ; 
Or like the snow-falls in the river, 
A moment white — then melts forever ; 
Or like the borealis race, 
That flit ere you can point their place ; 
Or like the rainbow's lovely from 
Evanishing amid the storm. — 
Nae man can tether time or tide ; 
The hour approaches Tarn' maun ride ; 
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 
And sic a night he tali's the read in, 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; 
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd : 
That night, a child might understand, 
The deil had business on his hand. 

Wsel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, 
A better never lifted leg, 
Tarn skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet: 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnc 



BURNS' POEMS. 191 

Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk-AUoway was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaists and houiets nightly cry. — 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whare in the shaw the chapman smoor'd; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane; 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn ; 
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel. — 
Before him Boon pours all his floods ; 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods: 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
When glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk-AUoway seem'd in a bleeze ; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing ; 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. — 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
Wj 1 tippenny, we fear nae evil ; 
Wi' usquabae we'll face the devil ! — 
The swats sae ream 1 d in Tammie's noddle, 
Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle, 
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 
nil, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 
She ventur'd forward on the light ; 
And, vow ! Tarn saw an unco sight ! 
Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 
Nae cotillon brent new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 
rut lite and mettle in their heels. 
A wifmock-bunker in the east, 
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast . 



192 BURNS' POEMS. 

\ towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 
To gie them music was his charge : 
He screw' d the pipes and gart them skirl, 
Till roof and rafters a 1 did dirl, — 
Coffins stood round like open presses, 
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses , 
And by some devilish cantraip slight, 
Each in its cauld hand held a light, — 
By which heroic Tarn was able 
To note upon the haly table, 
A murderer's banes in gibbet aims; 
Twa span-lang, wee unchristen'd bairns ; 
A thief, new cutted frae a rape, 
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 
Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted ; 
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted ; 
A garter, which a babe had strangled ; 
A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft, 
The gray hairs yet stack to the heft ; 
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', 
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu 1 . 

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reel'd. they set, they cross'd, they cleeku 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 
And coost her duddies to the wark, 
And linket at it in her sark ! 

Now Tarn, Tarn ! had they been quean* 
A 1 plump and strapping, in their teens ; 
Their sarks, instead o 1 creeshie flannen, 
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen : 
Thir breeks o 1 mine, my only pair, 
That ance wero plush, o' guid blue hair, 



BURNS' POEMS. 193 

I wad hae gi'en then aff my hurdies, 
» or ae blink o' thebonnie bardies! 

But witlier'd beldams, auld and droll, 
Higwoodie hags wad spean a foal, 
Lovvping an' flinging on a crummock, 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Turn kenn'd what was what fu' brawiie 
There was ae winsome wench and walie, 
That night enlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ! 
For mony a beast to dead she shot, 
And perish 'd mony a bonnie boat, 
And shook baith meikle corn and bear, 
And kept the country-side in fear.) 
Here cutty-sark, o' Paisley harn, 
That while a lassie she had worn. 
In longitude tho 1 sorely scanty, 
It was her best, and she was vauntie.— 
Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi 1 twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches,) 
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches ! 

But here my muse her wings maun cour; 
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r ; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jade she was and Strang) 
And how Tarn stood, like ane bewitch'd, 
And thought his very e"en enrich'd ; 
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain, 
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and maim 
Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
Tarn tint his reason a' thegither, 
And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark!" 
And in an instant all was dark: 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 
U ]3 



194 BURNS' POEMS. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 
When plundering herds assail their byke! 
As open pussie's mortal foes, 
When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 
As eager runs the market-crowd, 
When, " Catch the thief;" resounds aloud; 
So Maggie runs, the w itches follow, 
Wi' mony an eldritch skreech and hollow. 

Ah, Tarn.' ah, Tarn ! thou' 11 get thy fairin? 
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin ! 
Kate soon will be a wofu 1 woman ! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane* of the brig ! . 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream thev dare na cross. 
But ere the key-stane she could make, 
The fient a tale she had to shake ! 
For Nannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle ; 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
Ae spring brought off her master hale, 
But loft behind her ain gray tail : 
The carlin claught her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son tak heed : 
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear, 
Remember Tarn o 1 Shanter^s mare. 

*It is a well-known fact that witches, or any evil 
spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any 
farther than the middle of the next running stream 
It may be proper likewise to mention to the benight- 
ed traveler, that when he falls in with bogles, what- 
ever danger may be in his going forward, there i» 
much more hazard in turning back. 



BURNS' POEMS. 195 

ON SEEING- A WOUNDED HARE 
LIMP BY ME, 

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ; 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 
The bitter little that of life remains: 
No more the thickening brakes and verdant 
plains, 

To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted 
rest, 
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ■ 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy h*»ad, 

The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee .sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy 
hapless fate. 

— »»►»© © Q«««<"— 

ADDRESS 

TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, 

ON CROWNING HTS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBUSH 
SHIRE, WITH BAVS. 

While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood. 

Unfolds her tender mantle green, 
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, 

Or tunes Eolian strains between : 



196 BURNS' POEMS. 

While Summer with a matron grace 

Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, 
Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace 

The progress of the spiky blade : 
While Autumn, benefactor kind, 

By Tweed erects his aged head, 
And sees, with self-approving mind, 

Each creature on his bounty fed : 

While maniac Winter rages o'er 

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, 
Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, 

Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows ; 
So long, sweet Poet of the year, 

ShaH bloom that wreath thou well hast won; 
While Scotia, with exulting tear, 

Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 



■»»6 99 t"" ' 

EPITAPHS, ETC. . 

ON A CELEBRATED RULING 
ELDER. 

Here souter**** in death does sleep , 

To h-11, if he's gane thither, 
Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, 

He'll haud it weel thegither. 



ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 

Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes : 

O death, it's my opinion, 
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin b-tch 

Into thy dark dominion ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 197 

. ON WEE JOHNIE. 
Hie jacet wee Johnie. 
Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know, 
That death has murder' d Johnie ! 

An' here his body lies fir low 

For saul, he ne'er had ony. 



FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. 
O ye, whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 

Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! 
Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, 

The tender father, and the gen'rous friend. 
The pitying heart that felt for human wo ; 

The dauntless heart that fear'd no human 
pride : 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; 

" For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's 



FOR R. A. Esq. 
Know thou, stranger to the fame 
Of this much lov'd, much honor'd name; 
(For none that knew him need be told) 
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. 



FOR G-. H. Esq. 
The poor man weeps — here G— — n 
.Whom canting wretches blam'd : 
But with such as he, where'er he be, 
May I be sav'd or damiCd ! 
* Goldsmith 



198 BURNS' POEMS. 

A BARD'S EPITAPH. 

Is there a whim -inspired fool, 
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, 

Let him draw near ; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool, 

And drap a tear. 

la there a bard of rustic song, 
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among. 
That weekly this area throng, 

O, pass not by ! 
But with a frater-feeling strong, 

• Here, heave a sigh, 

la there a man, whose judgment clear, 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, 

Wild as the wave ; 
Here pause — and, thro' the starting tear, 

Survey this grave. 

This poor inhabitant below 
Was quick to learn, and wise to know, 
And keenly felt the friendly glow, 

And softer flame, 
But thoughtless follies laid him low, 

And stained his name 

Reader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, 

In low pursuit ; 
Know, prudent, cautious, self-control 

Is wisdom's root. 



BURNS' POEMS. 199 

ON THE LATE 

OA.PT. GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS 
THROUGH SCOTLAND, 

COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. 

Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, 
r rae Maidenkirk to Johnie Groat's; 
It there's a hole in a' your coats, 

I rede you tent it : 
A chield's amang you taking notes, 

And, faith, he'll prent it 

If in your bounds ye chance to light 
l T pon a fine, fat, fodgle wight, 
O' stature short, but genius bright, 

That's he, mark weel— 
And vow ! he has an unco slight 

O' cauk and keel. 

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,* 
Or kirk deserted by its riggin, 
It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in 

Some eldritch part, 
Wi' deils, they say, L — d save's ! colleaguin 
At some black art.— 

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer, 
Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamor, 
And you deep read in hell's black grammar, 
Warlocks and witches ; 
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, 

Ye midnight b es. 

It's tauld he was a sodger bred, 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; 
But now he's quat the spurtle blade, 

And dog-skin wallet, 

• Vide his Antiquities of Scotland. 



200 BURNS' POEMS. 

And ta'en the — Antiquarian trade, 

I think, they call it. 

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets : 
Rusty aim caps and jinglin jackets,* 
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont guid ; 
And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, 

Before the Flood. 

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 
Auld Tubal Cain's fire-shool and fender; 
That which distinguished the gender 

O' Balaam's ass; 
A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor. 

Weel shod wi 1 brass. 

Forbye, he'll snape you aff, fu' gleg, 
The cut of Adam's philibeg ; 
The knife that nicket Abel's craig 

He'll prove you fully, 
It was a faulding jocteleg, 

Or lang-kail gullie. — 

But wad ye see him in his glee, 
For meikle glee and fun has he, 
Then set him down, and twa or three 

Guid fellows wi' him ; 
And port, O port ! shine thou a wee, 

And then ye'll see him : 

Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose ! 
Thou art a dainty chield, Grose ! — 
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose, 

They sair misca' thee ; 
I'd take the rascal by the nose, 

Wad say, Shamefa' thee. 

* Vide his Treatise on Ancient Armor and W«» 



BURNS' POEMS. 201 

TO MISS CRUIRSHANKS, 

A VERY YOUNG LADY. 

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, FRB- 
SENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR. 

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, 

Blooming on thy early May, 

Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r, 

Chilly shrink in sleety show'r '. 

Never Boreas' hoary path, 

Never Eurus' pois'nous breath, 

Never baleful stellar lights, 

Taint thee with untimely blights ! 

Never, never reptile thief 

Riot on thy virgin leaf! 

Nor even Sol too fiercly view 

Thy bosom, blushing still with dew! 

May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem, 
Richly deck thy native stem ; 
Till some ev'ning, sober, calm, 
Dropping dews, and breathing balm, 
While all around the woodland rings, 
And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings ; 
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, 
Shed the dying honors round, 
And resign to parent earth 
The loveliest form she e'er gave birth, 



SO NG, 



Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, 

And waste my soul with care , 
But ah ! how bootless to admire, 
When fated to despair ' 



♦202 BURNS' POEMS. 

Yet in thy presence, lovely Fair, 
To hope may be forgiv'n ; 

For sure 'twere impious to despair, 
So much in sight of Heav'n. 



ON BEADING, IN A NEWSPAPER, 

THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, Esq. 

BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR 
FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S. 

Sad thy tale, thou idle page, 

And rueful thy alarms : 
Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 

Sweetly deckt with pearly dew 

The morning rose may blow ; 
But cold successive noontide blasts 

May lay its beauties low. 

Fair on Isabella's morn 

The sun propitious smil'd ; 
But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds 

Succeeding hopes beguil'd. 

Fate oft tears the bosom chords 

That nature finest strung ; 
So Isabella's heart was form'd, 

And so that heart was wrung. 

Dread Omnipotence, alone, 

Can heal the wound he gave ; 
Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes 

To scenes beyond the grave. 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 203 

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, 

And fear no withering blast ; 
There Isabella's spotless worth 

Shall happy be at last. 



THE 

HUMBLE PETITION 

OF 

BRUAR WATER* 

TO 

THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. 

My Lord, I know, your noble ear 

Wo ne'er assails in vain ; 
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear 

Your humble Slave complain, 
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, 

In flaming summer-pride, 
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams, 

And drink my crystal tide. 
The lightly -jumping glowrin trouts, 

That thro' my waters play, 
If, in their random, wanton spouts, 

They near the margin stray ; 
If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 

I'm scorching up to shallow, 
They're left the whitening stanes amang, 

In gasping death to wallow. 
Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, 

As Poet B**** came by, 

♦"Bruar Falls in Athole are exceedingly pictur- 
esque and beautiful; but their effect is much impaired 
»jr the want of trees and shrubs. 



204 BURNS' POEM8. 

That to a Bard I should be seen 

Wi' half toy channel dry : 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween, 

Even as I was he shor'd me ; 
But had I in my glory been, 

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, 

In twisting strength I rin ; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 

Wild-roaring o'er a linn : 
Enjoying large each spring and well, 

As nature gave them me, 
I am, altho' 1 say't mysel, 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 

Would then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes, 
He'll shade my banks wi 1 tow'ring trees 

And bonnie spreading bushes ; 
Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll wander on my banks, 
And listen mony a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 

The sober laverock, warbling wild, 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink, music's gayest child, 

Shall sweetly join the choir : 
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, 

The mavis mild and mellow ; 
The robin pensive autumn cheer, 

In all her locks of yellow. 
This too, a covert shall ensure, 

To shield them from the storm ; 
And coward maukin sleep secure, 

Low in her grassy form : 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat 

To weave his crown of flow'rs ; 



BURNS' POjSMS. 205 

Or find a sheltering safe retreat. 
From prone descending show'rs. 

And here, by sweet endearing stealth, 

Shall meet the loving pair, 
Despising worlds, with all their wealth, 

As empty, idle care : 
The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms 

The hour of heav'n to grace, 
And birks extend their fragrant arms, 

To screen the dear embrace. 

Here, haply too, at vernal dawn, 

Some musing bard may stray, 
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, 

And misty mountain, gray ; 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, 

Mild-chequering thro' the trees, 
Rave to my darkly dashing stream, 

Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, 

My lowly banks o'erspread, 
And view, deep-pending in the pool, 

Their shadows' wat'ry bed ! 
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest, 

My craggy cliffs adorn ; 
And, for the little songster's nest, 

The close embow'ring thorn. 

So may old Scotia's darling hope, 

Your little angel band, 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honor'd native land ! 
So may thro' Albion's farthest ken, 

The social flowing glasses, 
T °A gr l c ? be — "Whole's honest men, 

And Athole's bonnie lasses !" 



S06 BURNS' POEMS. 

ON SOARING SOME WATER-FOWL 
IN LOOK-TURIT. 

A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF 
OUGHTERTYRE. 

Why, ye tenants of the lake, 
For me your wat'ry haunt forsake t 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly ? 
Why disturb your social joys, 
Parent, filial, kindred ties ? — 
Common friend to you and me, 
Nature's gifts to all are free : 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, 
Busy feed, or wanton lave ; 
Or beneath the sheltering rock, 
Bide the surging billow's shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race, 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace; 
Man, your proud usurping foe, 
Would be lord of all below : 
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 

The eagle, from the cliffy brow, 
Marking you his prey below, 
In his breast no pity dwells, 
Strong necessity compels. 
But man, to whom alone is giv'n 
A ray direct from pitying Heav'n, 
Glories in his heart humane — 
And creatures for his pleasure slain. 

In these savage, liquid plains, 
Only known to wand' ring swains, 
Where the mossy riv'let strays, 
Far from human haunts and ways ; 
All on Nature you depend, 
And life's poor season peaceful spend. 



BURNS' POEMS. 207 

Or, if man's superior might, 
Dare invade your native right, 
On the lofty ether borne, 
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn ; 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, 
Other lakes and others springs; 
And the foe you cannot brave, 
Scorn at least to be his slave. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL 

OVER THE OHIMNEY-PIEOE, 

IN THE PARLOR OF THE INN AT KENM0RE, TAT 
MOUTH. 

Admiring Nature, in her wildest grace, 
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace ; 
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, 
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep, 
My savage journey, curious, I pursue, 
Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view. 
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, 
The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample 
sides ; [hills, 

Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the 
The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; 
The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride, 
The palace rising on his verdent side ; [taste ; 
The lawns wood-fring'd in Nature's native 
The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste, 
The arches striding o'er the new-born-stream ; 
The village glittering in the noontide beam. 

***** 
Poetic ardors in my bosom swell, 
Lone wandYing by the hermit's mossy cell ; 



208 BURNS' POEMS. 

The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; 
Th' incessant roar of headlong, tumbling floods 

* - * * * * 
Here posey might wake her heav'n-taught lyre, 
And look through nature with creative fire ; 
Here, too, the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd, 
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild ; 
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, 
Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds ; 
Here heart-struck Grief might heav'n-ward 

stretch her scan, 
And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 

STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR LOCH- 

NESS. 

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods, 
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; 
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 
Where, through a shapeless breach, his stream 

resounds. 
As high in air the bursting torrents flow, 
As deep recoiling surges foam below, [scends, 
Prone down the rock the whitening sheet de- 
And viewless echo's ear, astonish'd, rends. 
Dim-seen, tbrough rising mists and ceaseless 

show'rs, 
The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding low'rs, 
Still thro 1 ' the gap the struggling river toils, 
And still below the horrid caldron boils — 



BURNS* POEMS. 209 

ON THE BIRTH 
OF A 

POSTHUMOUS CHILD, 

BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF FAMILY 
DISTRESS. 

Sweet Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, 

And ward o' mony a pray'r, 
What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair ! 

November hirples o'er the lea, 

Chill, on thy lovely form ; 
And gane, alas ! the shelt'ring tree, 

Should shield thee frae the storm. 

May He who gives the rain to pour, 

And wings the blast to blaw, 
Protect thee frae the driving show'r. 

The bitter frost and snaw ! 

May He, the friend of wo and want, 
Who heals life's various stounds, 

Protect and guard the mother plant, 
And heal her cruel wounds ! 

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast, 

Fair on the summer morn : 
Now feebly bends she in the blast, 

Unshelter'd and forlorn. 

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, 

Unscath'd by ruffian hand ! 
And from thee many a parent stem 

Arise to deck our land ' 



210 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

THE WHISTLE. 

A BALLAD. 

As the authentic prose history of the Whistle is 
curious, I shall here give it. — In the train of Anne of 
Denmark, when she came to Scotland, with our 
James the Sixth, there came over also a Danish gen- 
tleman of gigantic stature and great prowess, and 
a matchless champion of Bacchus. He iiad a little 
ebony Whistle, which, at the commencement of ihe 
orgies he laid on the table, and whoever was last 
able to blow it, every body else being disabled by the 
potency of the bottle, was to carry off the Whistle as 
a trophy of victory. The Dane produced credentials 
of his victories, without a single defeat, at the courts 
of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, and 
several of the petty courts in Germany ; and chal- 
lenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the alternative of 
trying his prowess, or else of acknowledging their 
inferiority— After many overthrows on the part of 
the Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert 
Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor of the present wor- 
thy baronet of that name ; who, after three days' and 
three nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian un- 
der the table, 

And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. 

Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, 
afterwards lost the Whistle to Walter Riddel of 
Glenriddel, who had marred a sister of Sir Walter's. 
On Friday the 16th of October, 1790, at Friars-Carse, 
the Whistle was once more contended for, as related 
in the ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of 
Maxwelton ; Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenriddel, lin- 
eal descendant and representative of Waller Riddel, 
who won the Whistle, and in whose family it had 
continued ; and Alexander Fergusson, Esq. of Craig- 
darroch, likewise descended of the great Sir Robert j 
which last gentleman carried off the hard-won hon- 
ors of the field. 



1 sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, 
I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North, 



BURNS' POEMS. 211 

Was brought to the court of our good Scottish 

king* [ring. 

And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall 

Old Loda,* still rueing the arm of Fingal, 

The god of the bottle sends down from his hall— 

" This Whistle's your challenge — to Scotland 

get o'er, [more!" 

And drink them to hell, Sir ! or ne'er see me 

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still, 
What champions ventur'd, what champions fell ; 
And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. 

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the 
Scaur, 
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, 
He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea, 
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 

Thus Robert victorious, the trophy has gain'd, 
Which now in his house for ages remain'd ; 
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, 
The jovial contest again have renew'd. 

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear oi 
Haw ; 
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth and law; 
And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins ; 
And gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old wines. 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as 
oil, 
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ; 
0r else he would muster the heads of the clan, 
And once more, in claret, try which was the man. 

" By the gods of the ancients !" Glenriddel re- 
plies, 
Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
♦See Ossian's Carrie- thura 



212 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

Ill conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More, - 
And bumper his horn with him twenty times 



Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend. 

But he ne'er turn*d his back on his foe — or his 

friend, [field, 

Said, toss down the Whistle, the prize of the 

And knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd yield. 

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair. 

So noted for drowning of sorrow and care ; 

But for wine and for welcome not more known 

to fame, [dame. 

Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet, lovely 

A bard was selected to witness the fray, 
And tell future ages the feats of the day ; 
A bard who detested all sadnes3 and spleen, 
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. 

The dinner being over, the claret they ply, 
And every new cork is a new spring of joy ; 
In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, 
And the bands grew the tighter the more they 
were wet. 

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; 
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, 
Ana vow'd that to leave them he was quite for- 
lorn, 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd find them next morn. 

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night, 
When gallant Sir Robert to finish the fight, 
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red. 
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors did. 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, 
No longer the warfare, ungodly would wage ; 
* See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides. 



BURNS' POEMS. 2J3 

A high- ruling Elder to wallow in wine ! 
He left the foul business to folks less divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; 

But who can with fate and quart bumpers con- 
tend ? 

Though fate said — a hero should perish in 
light ; . 

So uprose bright Phoebus — and down fell the 
knight. 

Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in 
drink : — 
" Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall 

sink ! 
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme. 
Come — one bottle more — and have at the sub- 
lime* 

" Thy line, which has struggled for Freedom 
with Bruce, 
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce : 
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ; 
The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of 
day!" 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES OF POETRY 
EXTRACTED FROM THR 

CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS; 
SONGS, 

COMPOSED FOR THE 

MUSICAL PUBLICATIONS OF MESSRS. THOMS05 
AND JOHNSON, 

WITH ADDITIONAL PIECES. 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

A BROTHER POET.* 
AULD NEEBOR — . 

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
For your auld-farrant, frien'ly letter ; 
Tho 1 I maun sayH, I doubt ye flatter, 

Ye speak sae fair ; 
For my puir, silly, rhymin 1 clatter, 

Some less maun sair. 

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; 
Lang may your elbuck jink an 1 diddle, 
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle 

O' war'ly cares, 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld, gray hairs. 

♦This is prefixed to the poems of David Sllhv, m 
»t»hed at Kilmarnock, 1789 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 215 

But, Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaiku , 
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit ; 
An' gif it's sae, ye sud be licket 

Until ye fyke ; 
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit, 

Be hain't wha like. 

For me, I 'm on Parnassus' brink, 
Riven' the words to gar them clink ; 
Whyles dais't wi' love, whyles dais't wi' drink. 

Wi' jads or masons ; 
An' whyles, but ay owre late, I think 

Braw sober lessons. 

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Commen' me to the Bardie clan : 
Except it be some idle plan 

O' rhymin 1 clink, 
The devil-haet, that I sud ban, 

They ever think. 
Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin', 
Nae cares to give u* joy or grievin' : 
But just the pouchie put the nieve in, 

An' while ought's thew, 
Then, hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin', 

An' fash nae mair. 
Leeze me on rhyme i it's aye a treasure, 
My chief, amaist my only pleasure, 
At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure, 

The Muse, poor hizzie ! 
Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure, 

She's seldom lazy. 
Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie ; 
The warl' may play you monie a shavie ; 
But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, 

Tho' e'er sae puir, 
Na, even tho' limpin wi' the spavie 

Frae door to door. 



216 BURNS' POEMS. 

THE LASS OF BALLOOHMYLE. 

'Twas eve — the dewy fields were green, 

On ev'ry biade the pearls hang ; 
The zephyr wanton'd round the bean, 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang : 
In every glen the mavis sang, 

All nature listening seem'd the while ; 
Except where green-wood echoes rang', 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward strayed, 

My heart rejoiced in nature's joy, 
When musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanced to spy ; 
Her look was like the morning's eye. 

Her air like nature's vernal smile, 
Perfection whispered, passing by, 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Fair is the morn in flowery May, 

And sweet is night in autumn mild ; 
When roving thro' the garden gay, 

Or wandering in the lonely wild ; 
But woman, nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does compile , 
Even there her other works are foil'd 

By the bonnie lass of Ballochmyle. 

O, had she been a country maid, 

And I the happy country swain, 
Tho' sheltered in the lowest shed 

That ever rose in Scotland's plain ! 
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain, 

With ioy, with rapture, I would toil ; 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonnie lass of Ballochmyle. 

Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, 
Where fame and honors lofty shine ; 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 217 

And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 
Or downward seek the Indian mine; 

Give mc the cot below the pine, 
To tend the flocks or till the soil, 

And ev'ry day have joys divine, 

With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 

Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usherest in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast t 

That sacred hour can I forget, 

Can I forget the hallowed grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met, 

To live one day of parting love ! 
Eternity will not efface, 

Those records dear of transports past ; 
Thy image at our last embrace ; 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas oui last ! 

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wildwoods, thick'ning green, 
The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar, 

Twin'd am'rous round the raptured scene. 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 

The birds sang love on every spray, 
Till too, too soon the glowing west, 

Proclaimed the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, 
And fondly broods with miser care ! 



218 BURNS' POEMS. 

Time but th' impression deeper makes, 
As streams their channels deeper wear 

My Mary, dear departed shade ! 
Where is thy blissful place of rest? 

See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear' st thou the groans that rend his breastt 



LINES ON 
AN INTERVIEW WITH LORD DAER 

This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty-third, 
A ne'er to be forgotten day, 
Sae far I sprackled up the brae, 

I dinner'd wi' a Lord. 

I've been at drunken writer's feasts, 
Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests, 

Wi' rev'rence be it spoken; 
I've even join'd the honor'd jorum, 
When mighty Squireships of the quorum, 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 
But wi' a Lord — stand out my shin, 
A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son, 

Up higher yet my bonnet ; 
An' sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa, 
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a', 

As I look o'er my sonnet. 
But oh for Hogarth's magic pow'r, 
To show Sir Bardy's willyart glowr, 

And how he star'd and stamrner'd, 
When goavan, as if led wi' branks, 
An' stumpan' on his ploughman shanks, 

He in the parlor hammer' d. 



BURNS' POEMS. 219 

I sliding sheltered in a nook, 
An' at nis Lordship steal' t a look 

Like some portentous omen ; 
Except good-sense and social glee, 
An' (what surprised me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 

I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state, 

The arrogant assuming ; 
The feint a pride, nae pride had he, 
Nor sauce, nor state that I could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughman 

Then from his Lordship I shall learn, 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 

One rank as well's another; 
Nae honest worthy man need care, 
To meet with noble, youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 






ON A YOUNG LADY, 

Residing on the banks of the small river Devon, is 
Clackmannanshire, but whose Infant years wer« 
ipent in Ayrshire. 

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding 

Devon, [blooming fair ; 

With green-spreading bushes, and flowers 

Bat the bonniest flower on the banks of the 

Devon, 

Was once a sweet bud on the braes Of the Ayr. 

Al ild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, 
Id the gay rosy morn as it bathes hi the dew • 



220 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

And gentle the fall of 'he soft vernal showc 
That steals on the evening eacn leaf to renew 

O, spare tiie dear Diossom, ye orient oreezes, 
With chill hoary wings as ye usher the dawn! 

And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes 
The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn! 

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies, 
And England triumphant display her proud 
rose ; 
A fairer than e^hsr adorns the green valleys, 
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering 
flows. 



OASTLB GORTON 
I. 
Streams that glide in orient plains, 
Never bound by winter's chains ; 

Glowing here on golden sands, 
There commix'd with foulest stains 

From tyranny's empurpled bands ; 
These, their richly-gleaming waves, 
I leave to tyrants ana their slaves ; 
Give me the stream that sweetly laves 

The banks, by Castle Gordon. 

II. 
Spicy forests, ever gay, 
Shading from the burning ray ; 

Hapless wretches sold to toil, 
Or the ruthless native's way, 

Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil: 
Woods that ever verdant wave,, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave ; 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 331 

Give me the groves that lofty brave 
The storms, by Castle Gordon. 

TIL 
Wildly here without control, 
Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 

In that sober, pensive mood, 
Dearest to the feeling soul, 

She plants the forest, pours the flood ; 
Life's poor day I'll musing rave ; 
And find at night a sheltering cave, 
Where waters flow and wild woods wave, 

By bonnie Castle Gordon. * 



NAE-BODY. 

I hae a wife o' my ain, 

I'll partake wi' nae-body ; 
I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 

I'll gie cuckold to nae-body. 
I hae a penny to spend, 

There — thanks to nae-body; 
I hae naething to lend, 

I'll borrow frae nae-body. 
I am nae-body's lord, 

I'll be slave to nae-body; 
I hae a guid braid sword, 

I'll tak dunts frae nae-body. 
I'll be merry and free, 

I'll be sad for nae-body; 
If nae-body care for me, 

I'll care for nae-body. 

• These verses our Poet composed to be sung to 
Moras-, a Highland air, of which he waa extremely 
fond. 



222 BURNS' POEMS. 

ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG, 
NAMED ECHO. 

In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 

Your heavy loss deplore ; 
Now half-extinct your power of song, 

Sweet Echo is no more. 

Ye jarring, screeching things around, 
Scream your discordant joys ; 

Now half your din of tuneless sound 
With Echo silent lies. 



SONG.* 
Tune—" I am a man unmarried. * 

0, once I lov'd a bonnie lass, 

Ay, and I love her still, 
And whilst that virtue warms my breast, 

I'll love my handsome Nell. 

Tal lal de ral, fyc. 

As bonnie lasses I hae seen, 

And mony full as braw, 
But for a modest, gracefu 1 mien, 

The like I never saw. 

A bonnie lass, I will confess, 

Is pleasant to the e'e, 
But without some better qualities 

She's no a lass for me. 

But Nelly's looks are blythe and sweet, 

And what is best of a', 
Her reputation is complete, 

And fair without a flaw. 

* This was our Poet's first attempt. 



BURNS' POEMS. 233 

She dresses ay sae clean and neat, 

Both decent and genteel ; 
And then there's something in her gait 

Gars ony dress look weel. 

A gaudy dress and gentle air 

May slightly touch the heart, 
But it's innocence and modesty 

That polishes the dart. 

'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 

'Tis this enchants my soul ; 
For absolutely in my breast 

She reigns without control. 

Tal lal de ral, fa. 



INSCRIPTION 
TO THE MEMORY OF FURGUSSON. 

HERE LIES ROBERT FURGUSSON, POET. 
Born, September 5th, 1751 — Died, \Qth October, 1774. 

No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay, 
" No storied urn, nor animated bust," 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way, 
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 



THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. 

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves re- 
turning, 
The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro* 
the vale ; 



224 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of >•>. 
morning, [dale : 

And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green 

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem 

fair, 

While the lingering moments are . number' d 

by care ? [singing, 

No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly 

Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. 

The deed that I dar'd, could it merit their malice, 
A king and a father to place on his throne ? 

His right are these hills, and his right are these 

valleys, [find none. 

Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can 

But 'tis not my sufT rings, thus wretched, forlorn, 
My brave gallant friends, His your ruin 1 
mourn : s 

Your deeds prov'd so loyal in hot bloody trial, 
Alas ! can I make you no sweeter return' 



EPISTLE TO R. GRAHAM, Esq. 

When Nature her great master-piece design'd. 
And fram'd her last best work, the human mind, 
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, 
She form 1 d of various parts the various man. 

Then first she calls the useful many forth ; 
Plain plodding industry and sober worth: 
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, 
And merchandise' whole genus take their birthi 
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, 
And all mechanics 1 many apron'd kinds. 



BURNS' POEMS. 225 

Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 

The lead and buoy are needful to the net ; 

The caput mortuum of gross desires 

Makes a material for mere knights and squire^ 

The martial phosphorus is taught to flow; 

She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough, 

Then marks th 1 unyielding mass with grave 

designs, 
Law, physics, politics, and deep divines: 
Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, 
The flashing elements of female souls. 

The order' d system fair before her stood, 
Nature, well-pleas'd, pronounced it very good; 
But e'er she gave creating labor o'er, 
Half jest, she try'd one curious labor more : 
Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter ; 
Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter; 
With arch-alacrity and conscious glee, 
(Nature may have her whim as weil as we, 
Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) 
She forms the thiiu>\ and christens it — a poet. 
Creature tho 1 oft the prey of care and sorrow. 
When blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow; 
A being forrn'd V amuse his graver friends, 
Admir'd and prais'd — and there the homage 

ends : 
A mortal quite unfit for Fortune's strife, 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, 
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live : 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

But honest nature is not quite a Turk, 
She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work. 
Pitying the propless climber of mankind, 
She cast about a standard tree to find ; 
X 15 



226 BURNS' POEMS. 

And, to support his helpless woodbine state, 
Attached him to the generous truly great, 
A title, and the only one I claim, 
To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Gra- 
ham. 

Pity the tuneful muses 1 hapless train, 
Weak, timid landmen on life's stormy main ! 
Their hearts no selfish, stern, absorbent stuff, 
That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough ; 
The little fate allows, they share as soon, 
Unlike sage, proverb'd Wisdom's hard-wrung 

boon. 
The world were blest did bliss on them depend, 
Ah, that '.' the friendly e'er should want a 

friend !" 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son, 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun, 
Who feel by reason, and who give by rule, 
Instinct 's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 
Who make poor will do wait upon / should — 
We own they're prudent, but who feels they're 

good ? 
Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 
God's image rudely eteh'd on base alloy ! 
But come, ye who the godlike pleasure know, 
Heaven's attribute distinguish'*! — to bestow ! 
Whose arms of love would grasp the human 

race : 
Come, thou who giv 1 st with all a courtier's grace; 
Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! 
Prop of my dearest hoqes for future times ; 
Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid, 
Backward, abash'd, to ask thy friendly aid ? 
I know my need, I know thy giving hand, 
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command ; 
But there are such who court the tuneful nine- 
Heavens ! should the branded character be mine! 



BURNS' POEMS. 927 

Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely 

flows, 
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 
Mark, how iheir lofty, independent spirit 
Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit ! 
Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; 
Pity the best of words should be but wind ! 
So, to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song as- 
cends, 
But groveling on the earth the carol ends. 
In all the clam'rous cry of starving want, 
They dun benevolence with shameless front ; 
Oblige them, patronise their tinsel lays, 
They persecute you all your future days ! 
Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, 
My horny fist assumes the plough again ; 
The piebald jacket let me patch once more ; 
On eighteen-pence a week I've liv'd before. 
Though, thanks to Heaven, I dare even that 

last shift, 
I trust meantims my boon is in thy gift : 
That plac'd by thee upon the wish'd-for height, 
Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, 
My muse may imp her wing for some sublimer 
flight.* 

* This is our Poet's first epistle to Graham of Fin- 
try. It is not equal to the second ; but it contains too 
much ot the characteristic vigor of its author to be sup- 
pressed. A little more knowledge of natural history 
or of chemistry, was wanted to enable him to execais 
tae original conception correctly. 



228 BURNS' POEMS. 

A FRAGMENT, 

INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. C. J. FOX. 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite ; 
How virtue and vice blend their black and theii 

white ; 
How genius, the illustrious father of fiction, 
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradic- 
tion — 
I sing; If these mortals, the critics, should bustle, 
I care not, not I, let the critics go whistle. 

But now for a Patron, whose name and whose 
glory 
At once may illustrate and honor my story. 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ; 
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere 

lucky hits ; 
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so 

strong, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong; 
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite 

right ; 
A sorry, poor misbegot son of the Muses, 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 

Good L — d, what is man ! for as simple he 

looks, 
Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks ; 
With his depths and his shallows, his good and 

his evil, 
All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil. 

On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely 

labors, [up its neighbors : 

That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eat* 



BURNS' POEMS. 229 

Mankind are his show-box — a friend, would you 
know him ? [show him. 

Pull the string, ruling passion the picture will 
What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, 
One trifling, particular truth, should have miss'd 

him ; 
For, spite of his fine theoretic positions, 
Mankind is a science defies definitions. 

Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, 
And think human nature they truly describe ; 
Have you found this, or t'other ? there's more in 

the wind, 
As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll 

find. 
But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan, 
In the make of that wonderful creature, call'd 

Man, 
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, 
Nor even two different shades of the same, 
Though like as was ever twin brother to brother, 
Possessing the one shall imply you've the other. 



TO DR. BLACLOCK. 

Ellisland, 21st Oct. 1789. 

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! 
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie ? 
I kenn'd it still your wee bit juntie 

Wad bring ye to : 
Lord send you ay as weel's I want ye, 

And then ye'll do. 

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! 
And never drink be near his drouth ! 



230 BURNS' POEMS. 

He tald myself by word o' mouth, 

He'd tak my letter; 

I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth, 

And bade nae better. 

But aiblins honest Master Heron 
Had at the time some dainty fair one, 
To ware his theologic care on, 

And holy study ; 
And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on, 

E'en tried the body.* 
But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, 
I'm turn'd a gauger — Peace be here ! 
Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear 

Ye'll now disdain me, 
And then my fifty pounds a year 

Will little gain me. 
Ye glaikit, gleesome, daintie damies, 
Wha by Castalia's wimplin streamies, 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty l'imbies, 

Ye ken, ye ken, 
That Strang necessity supreme is 

'Mang sons o' men. 
I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, 
They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies ; 
Ye ken yoursel, my heart right proud is, 

I need na vaunt, 
But I'll sned besoms — thraw saugh woodiea. 

Before they want. 

Lord help me thro' this warld o' care ! 
I'm weary sick o't late and air ! 
Not but I hae a richer share 

Than mony ithers ; 
But why should ae man better fare, 

And a' men brithers f 

• Mr. Heron, author of the History of Scotland, a 
/ variouw other works. 



BURNS' POEMS. 231 

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van, 
Thou stalk' o' carl-hemp in man ! 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair ; 
VVha does the utmost that he can, 

Will whyles do 



But to conclude my silly rhyme, 
(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) 
To make a happy fire-side clime 

To weans and wife, 
1 hat's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky, 
I wat she is a dainty chuckie, 

As e'er tread clay ! 
And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, 

I'm yours for ay. 

Robert Bursts. 



PROLOGUE, 

SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE ELLISLAND, ON NEW 
YEAR-DAY EVENING. 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great 
T , t «tjr. . , [pity, 

1 hat queens it o'er our taste— the more's the 
I no, oy the by, abroad why will you roam? 
J^ood sense and taste are natives here at home •- 
put not for panegyric I appear, 

r*?j"£ e 1° Wish you a11 a g° od new- year ! 
Old b ather Time deputes me here before ye, 
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story • 



232 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

The sage, grave ancient cough'd, and bade me 

say, 
" You're one year older this important day," 
If wiser too — he hinted some suggestion, 
But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the 

question ; 
And with a would-be-roguish leer and wink, 
He bade me on you press this one word — 

"think"' 

Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope 
and spirit, 
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, 
To you the dotard has a deal to say, 
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way! 
He bids you mind ; amid your thoughtless rattle, 
That the first blow is ever half the battle ; 
That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch 

him ; 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him ; 
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, 
You may do miracles by persevering. 

Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair, 
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care ! 
To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled 

brow, 
And humbly begs you'll mind the important — 

now ! 
To crown your happiness he asks your leave, 
knd offers, bliss to give and to receive. 

For our sincere, tho 1 haply weak endeavors. 
With greatful pride we own your many favors. 
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, 
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 



BURNS' POEMS. 233 

ELEGY 
ON THE LATE MISS BURNET, 
OF MONBODDO. 

! -FE ne'er exulted in so rich a prize, 

\s Burnet, lovely from her native skies ; 

Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow, 

A 3 that which laid the accomplish' d Burnet low. 

Thy form and mind., sweet maid, can I forget! 

In richest ore the brightest jewel set ! 

In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, 

\s by his noble work, the Godhead best is 

known. 
In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves; 

Thou crystal streamlet, with thy flowery shore, 
Ye woodland choir, that chant your idle loves, 

Ye cease to charm — Eliza is no more ! 
Ye heathy wastps, immix'd with reedy fens; 

Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes 
stor'd ; 
Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens, 

To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. 
Princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all their 
worth, 

Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ? 
And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake our earth, 

And not a muse in honest grief bewail ? 
We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, 

And virtue's light, that beams beyond the 
spheres : 
But like the sun eclips'dat morning tide, 

Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears. 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care' 

So deck'd the woodbine sweet yon aged tree, 
So from it ravish'd. leaves it bleak and bare. 



234 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

IMITATION 
OF AN OLD JACOBITE SONO. 

By yon castle wa\ at the close of the day, 
I heard a man sing, tho 1 his head it was gray ; 
And as he was singing, the tears fast down 

came — 
There '11 never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 
The church is in ruins, the state is in jars, 
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars ; 
We dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to 

blame — 
There '11 never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, 
And now I greet round their green beds in the 
yerd : [dame — 

It brak the sweet heart o 1 my faithfu' auld 
There '11 never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

Now life is a burden that bows me down, 
Sin 1 I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown ; 
But till my last moment my words are the 

same — 
There 11 never be peace till Jamie comes hame 



SONG OF DEATH. 

Scene—afield of battle ; time of the day— evening; the 
wounded and dying of the victorious army are tup- 
posed to join in the following Song. 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and 
ye skies, 

Now gay with the bright setting sun ! [ties, 
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender 

Our race of existence is run ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 235 

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy 
foe. 

Go, frighten the coward and slave ; [know, 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but 

No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 

Thou strik'st the dull peasant — he sinks in the 
dark, 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious r ark ! 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 

In the field of proud honor — our swords in our 
hands, 

Our king and our country to save, — 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, 

O who would not rest with the brave • 



THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN, 

An Occasional Address spoken by Miss Fontenelle on 
her Benefit-Night. 

While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, 
The fate of empires and the fall of kings, 
While quacks of state must each produce his plan, 
And even children lisp the Rights of Man ; 
Amidst this mighty fuss, just let me mention, 
The Rights of Woman merit some attention. 

First, in the sexes' intermixed connection, . 
One sacred Right of Woman is protection. — 
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, 
Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate, 
Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form, 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm. 



236 ' BURNS' POEMS. 

Our second Right — but needless here is cau« 

tion, 
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion. 
Each man of sense has it so full before him, 
He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum. — 
There was, indeed, in far less polish 'd days. 
A time, when rough rude man had naughty 

ways ; [riot ; 

Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a 
Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet. — 
Now, thank our stars ! these Gothic times are 

fled ; [bred— 

Now, well-bred men — and you are all well- 
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) 
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. 

For Right the third, our last, our best, oui 
dearest, 
That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest, 
Which even the Rights of Kings in low pros- 
tration, 
Most humbly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration ! 
In that blest sphere alone we live and move ; 
There taste that life of life — immortal love. — 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs. 
'Gainst such a host what flinty savage dares — 
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms, 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? 

But truce with kings, and truce with const/ 
tutions, 
With bloody armaments and revolutions ; 
Let majesty our first attention summon, 
Ah ! ca ira ! the Majesty of Woman ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 237 

ADDRESS. 

Spoken by Miss Fontenelle, on her Benefit-Night, De- 
cember 4, 1795, at the Theatre, Dumfries. 

Still anxious to secure your partial favor, 
And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever, 
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 
'T would vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better; 
So, sought a Poet, roosted near the skies, 
Told him I came to feast my curious eyes ; 
Said, nothing like his works was ever printed ; 
And last my Prologue-business slily hinted. 
" Ma'am, let me tell you, 1 ' quoth my man of 
rhymes, [times : 

"I know your bent — these are no laughing 
Can you — but Miss, I own I have my fears, 
Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears — 
With laden sighs, and solemnr-rounded sentence, 
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repen- 
tance ? 
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, 
Waving on high the desolating brand, 
Calling the storm to bear him o'er a guilty 
land?" 

I could no more — askance the creature eye- 
ing, ' [ingf 
D'ye think, said I, this face was made for cry- 
1*11 laugh, that's poz — nay more, the world shall 

know it ; 
And so, your servant ! gloomy Master Poet. 

Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief. 
That Misery's another word for Grief: 
I also think — so may I be a bride ! 
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd. 

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh 
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye 



238 BURNS' POEMS. 

Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive — 
To make three guineas do the work of five: 
Laugh in Misfortune's face — the beldam witch ' 
Say, you'll be merry, though you can't be rich 

Thou other man of care, the wretch in lovo, 
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove ; 
Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, 
Measur'st in desperate thought — a rope — thy 

neck — 
Or. where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep. 
Peerest to meditate the healing leap ; 
Wouldst thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf 
Laugh at her follies — laugh e'en at thyself: 
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, 
And love a kinder — that's your grand specific. 

To sum up all, be merry I advise ; 
And as we're merry, may we still be wise. 



SONGS 



THE LEA -RIG. 

When o'er the hill the eastern star, 

Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo ; 
And owsen frae the furrow'd field, 

Return sae dowf and weary, ; 
Down by the burn, where scented birks, 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, 0. 



BURNS' POEMS. _ 239 

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, 

I'd rove and ne'er be eerie, 0, 
If thro' that glen, I gaed to thee, 

My ain kind dearie, O, 
Altho 1 the night were ne'er sae wild, 

And I were ne'er sae wearie, O, 
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 

The hunter lo'es the morning sun, 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo, 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 

Along the burn to steer, my jo. 
Gie me the hour o' gloamin gray. 

It maks my heart sae cheery, 0, 
To meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 



TO MARY. 
Tune—" Ewe-bughts, Marion." 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
And leave auld Scotia's shore? 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
Across th' Atlantic's roar ? 

sweet grows the lime and the orange, 
And the apple on the pine ; 

But a' the charms o' the Indies, 
Can never equal thine. 

1 hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, 

I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true ; 
And sae may the Heavens forget me, 
When I forget my vow ! 



240 BURNS' POEMS. 

plight me your faith, my Mary, 

And plight me your lily-white hand ; 
O plight me your faith, my Mary, 

Before I leave Scotia's strand. 
We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual affection to join, 
And curst be the cause that shall part us ! 

The hour, and the moment o' time !* 



MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEB 
THING. 
She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 
I never saw a fairer, 
I never lo'ed a dearer, 
And niest my heart I'll wear her, 
For fear my jewel tine. 
She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 
The warld's wrack we share o't, 
The warstle and the care o't ; 
Wi' her I'll blithly bear it. 
And think my lot divine. 



BONNIE LESLEY. 
O saw ye bonnie Lesley, 
As she gaed o'er the border ? 

* This song Mr. Thomson has not adopted in fete 
collection. It deserves, however, to be preserved. — h 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 241 

She's gane, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farther. 

To see her is to love her, 

And love but her forever ; 
For Nature made her what she is, 

And ne'er made sic anither ! 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 

Thy subjects we, before thee, 
Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 

The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The Deil he could na scaith thee, 
Or aught that wad belang thee ; 

He'd look into thy bonnie face, 
And say, " I canna wrang thee." 

The Powers aboon will tent thee ; 

Misfortune sha'na steer thee; 
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, 

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 

Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie ! 
That we may brag, we hae a lass 

There's nane again sae bonnie. 



HIGHLAND MARY. 
Tune—'* Catharine Ogie." 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around, 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flower*, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there T took the last fareweel 
^.O' my sweet Highland Mary. 
* 16 



842 BURNS' POEMS. 

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk. 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom ; 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me, as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary. 

pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
And closed for ay, the sparkling glance, 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mouldering now in silent dust, 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ' 
But still within my bosom's core, 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



AULD ROB MOREI? 

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in you glen, 
He's the king o' guid fellows and wale ofauld 
men ; [kine, 

He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and 
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 

She 's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May ; 
She 's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay ; 



BURNS' POEM?. 



243 



As blithe and as artless as the lambs on the lea, 
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e. 
But oh ! she 's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird. 
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and 

yard ; 
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, 
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my 

dead. 
The day comes to me, but delight brings me 

nane ; . . 

The night comes to me, but my rest it ispne : 
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, 
And I sigh as my heart it would burst in my- 

breast. 

O, had she been but of lower degree, 
[ then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me ' 
0, how past descriving had then been my bliss, 
As now my distraction no words can express ! 



DUNOAN GRAY. 

Duncan Gray came here to woo, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 

On blithe yule night, when we were fou. 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 

Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o : t. 

Duncan fleeclTd, and Duncan pray'd; 

Ha, ha, &-C. 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, 

Ha, ha, $c. 



844 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin' , 
SpaK o' iowpin ower a iinn ; 

Ha, ha, i^-c. 
Time and chance are but a tide, 

Ha, ha, fyc. 
Slighted love is sair to bide, 

Ha, ha, (J-c. 
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, 
For a haughty hizzie die ? 
She may gae to — France for me ! 

Ha, ha, <£c. 
How it comes, let doctors tell, 

Ha, ha, <fc. 
Meg grew sick — as he grew heal, 

Ha, ha, 4"C. 
Something in her bosom wrings. 
For reliefa sign sne onngs ; 
And 0, her een, they spak sic things 
Ha, ha, 4"C. 

Duncan was a lad o' grace, 

Ha, ha, Sfc. 
Maggie's was a piteous case, 

Ha, ha, $c. 
Duncan could na be her death, 
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 
Now they're crouse and canty baith, 

Ha, ha, <$-c. 



SONG. 

Tune— "I had a horse." 

O poortith cauld, and restless love 
Ye wreck my peace between ye; 



BURNS' POEMS. 245 

Yet poonith a' I oould forgive, 

An 1 U were na for mv .leame. 
why should fate sic pleasure have, 

Life's dearest bands untwining ? 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love 

Depend on Fortune's shining ? 
This warld's wealth when I think on, 

Its pride, and a' the lave o't ; 
Fie, he on silly coward man, 

That he should be the slave o't. 
why, $c. 

Her een sae bonnie blue betray, 

How she repays my passion ; 
But prudence is her o'erword ay, 

Sne taiks of rar.k and fashion. 
why, 4-c. 

O wha can prudence think upon, 

And sic a lassie by him ? 
wha can prudence think upon, 

And sae in love as I am ? 
why, 4" c » 
How blest the humble cotter's fate ! 

He woos his simple dearie ; 
The sillie bogles, wealth and state, 

Can never make them eerie. 

O why should fate sic pleasure have, 
Life's dearest bands untwining ? 

Or why sae sweet a flower as love, 
Depend on Fortune's shining f 



GALLA WATER. 
There's braw, braw iads ori Yarrow brae*., 
That wander thro v the blooming heather ; 



$46 BURNS' POEMS. 

But Yarrow brae3, nor Ettric shaws, 
Can match the lads o' Galla water. 

But there is ane, a secret ane, 
Aboon them a' I lo'e him better ; 

And I'll be his, and hell be mine, 
The bonnie lad o' Galla water. 

Altho' his daddie was nae laird, 
And tho' I hae nae meikle tocher ; 

Yet rich in kindest, truest love, 

We'll tent our flocks by Galla water. 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth 
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure. 

The bands and bliss o 1 mutual love, 
O that's the chiefest warld 1 s treasure ' 



LORD GREGORY. 
O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, 

And loud the tempest's roar; 
A waefn 1 wanderer seeks thy tow'r,— 

Lord Gregory, ope thy door. 

An exile frae her father's ha\ 

And a' for loving thee ; 
At least some pity on me shaw, 

If love it may na be. 

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove, 

By bonnie Irwine side, 
Where first I own'd that virgin-love 

I lang, lang had denied ? 

How aften didst thou pledge and vow, 

Thou wad for ay be mine ! 
And my fond heart, itsel sae true, 

It tie er mistrusted thine ' 



BURNS' POEMS. 247 

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, 

And fhnty is thy breast : 
Thou dart of heaven, that flashestby, 

O wilt thou give me rest ! 
Ye mustering thunders from above, 

Your willing victim see ! 
But spare, and pardon my fause love, 

His wrangs to heaven and me ! 



MARY MORISON 
Tune — " Bide ye yet." 

Mary, at thy window be, 

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! 
Those smiles and glances let me see, 

That make the miser's treasure poor: 
How blithly wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun, 
Could I the rich reward secure, 

The lovely Mary Morison. 
Yestreen, when to the trembling string, 

The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', 
To thee my fancy took its wing, 

I sat, but neither heard or saw : 
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw 

And you the toast of a 1 the town, 

1 sigh'd, and said, amang them a', 

"Ye are na Mary Morison." 
Maiy, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only fault is loving thee ? 
If love for love thou will na gie, 

At least be pity to me shown ! 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 



248 BURNS' POEMS. 

WANDERING WILLIE. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame , 

Come to my bosom my ae only dearie, [same. 
And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the 

Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting; 

It was na the blast brought the tear to my e'e ; 
Now welcome the simmer, and welcome mv 
Willie, 

The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o 1 your slumbers, 
O how your wild horrors a lover alarms! 

Awaken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows, 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms 

But if he's forgotten his faithfullest Nannie, 
O still flow between us, thou wide roaring 
main; 

May I never see it, may I never trow it, 
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain ! 



THE SAME. 
Is altered by Mr. Erskine and Mr. Thomson. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame, 

Come to my bosom my ain only dearie, 
Tell me tbou bring'st me my Willie the same 

Winter -winds blew loud and caul at our parting 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e ; 

Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, 
At simmer to nature, so Willie to me. 



BURNS' POEMS. 249 

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave o' your slum- 
bers, 

How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 
Blow soft, ye breezes ! roll gently, ye billows ! 

And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. 

But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, 
Flow still between us thou dark-heaving main! 

May I never see it, may I never trow it, 

While dying, I think that my Willie's my am. 

Our Poet, with his usual judgment, adopted some of 
these alterations, and rejected others. The last 
edition is as follows : 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame ; 

Come to my bosom my ain only dearie, 

Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. 

Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting, 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e, 

Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slum 
bers, 

How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 
Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows, 

And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. 

But oh! if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, 
Flow still between us th >u wide-roaring main; 

May I never see it, may 1 never trow it, 
But, dying, believe tjat my Willie's my ain. 



259 BURNS' POEMS. 

OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH! 
WITH ALTERATIONS. 

Oh, open the door, some pity to show, 

Oh, open the door to me, oh ! 
Tho 1 thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true, 

Oh, open the door to me, oh ! 

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, 

But caulder thy love for me, oh ! 
The frost that freezes the life at my heart, 

Is nought to my pains frae thee, oh ! 

The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, 

And time is setting with me, oh ! 
False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair 

I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, oh ! 

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide , 
She sees his pale corse on the plain, oh ! 

My true love, she cried, and sank down by his 
side, 
Never to rise again, oh !— 



JESSIE. 
Tune — " Bonnie Dundee." 

True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the 
Yarrow, 

And fair are the maids on the banks o 1 the A yr, 
But by the sweet side o'the Nith's winding river. 

Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair : 
To equal young Jessie, seek Scotland all over , 

To equal young Jessie, you seek it in vain ; 
Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover, 

And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 



BURNS' POEMS. 251 

O, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning, 

And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, • 

Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring ; 

Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law ; 
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger' 

rter modest demeanor's the jewel of a'. 



WHEN WILD WAR'S DEADLY BLAST 
WAS BLAWN. 
Air—" The Mill Mill O." 
When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, 
And gentle peace returning, 
a T ny a SWeet babe ^therless, 
t i / , m ? ny a wi dow mourning, 

fi, L lhe I,nes and tented field > 

Where lang J'd been a lodger, 
My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 

A poor and honest sodger. 
A leal, light heart was in my breast, 

My hand unstain'd wi' plunder: 
And for fair Scotia's hame again, 

I cheery on did wander. 
I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 
t u thou S nt u P° n my Nancy, 
1 thought upon the witching smile 

1 hat caught my youthful fancy. 

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen. 
Where early life I sported ; 

C d t! £ mil1 ' and tr y sti "g thorn, 
Where Nancy aft I courted : 
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, 
Down by her mother's dwelling ! 



25& BURNS 1 POEMS. 

And turn'd me round to hide the floovl 
That in my een was swelling. 

W ;i alter'd voice, (moth I. sweet lass, 
Sweet as yon nawthonrs blossom, 

! happy, happy rr.w he be, 
That 1 ** uearest to thy Dosom ! 

My [.arse is light, I've far to gang, 
And fain wad be thy lodger ; 

I've serv'd my king and country lar.g, 
Take pity on a sodger. 

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me, 

And lovelier was than ever : 
Quo she. a sodger ance I lo'ed, 

Forget him snal! I never : 
Our humble cot. and namely fare, 

Ye freely shall partake it, 
Tha - gallant badge, the dear cockade, 

Ye're welcome for the sake o 1 t. 

She gaz'd — «he redden'd like a rose — 
Syne pale nke ony lily ; 

She sank within n:v arms, and cried, 
Art thou my ain uear Willie ? 

By him who made yon sun and sky- 
By whom true love's regarded. 

1 am the man ; and thus may still 
True lovers be rewarded. 

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, 

And find thee still true-hearted ; 
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love, 

And mair we'se ne'er be parted. 
Quo 1 she, my grandsire left me gowd, 

A mailen plenish'd fairly ; 
And come, my faithfu' sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly ! 
For gold the merchant ploughs the main, 

The farmer ploughs the manor ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 253 

But glory is the sodger's prize ; 

The sodger's wealth is honor ; 
The brave, poor sodger ne'er despise, 

Nor count him as a stranger, 
Remember he's his country's stay 

In day and hour of danger. 



MEG O' THE MILL. 
Air— " O bonnie lass, will you lie in a barrack 1" 

O ken ye what Meg o 1 the mill has gotten f 
An' ken ye what Meg o' the mill has gotten J 
She has gotten a coor wi' a claut o' siller, 
And broken the heart o' the barley miller. 

The miller was strapping, the miller was ruddy 
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady : 
The laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl : — 
She's left the guid fellow and ta'en the churl. 

The miller he hecht her heart leal and loving .- 
The laird did address her wi' matter man 

moving, 
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle, 
A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle. 

O wea on the siller, it is sae prevailing; 
And wea on the love that is fix'd on a mailen ' 
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle, 
But gie me my love, and a fig for the warl ! 



SONG-. 

Tune—" Liggeram Cosh." 

Blithe hae I been on yon hill, 
As the lambs before me ; 



254 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

Careless ilka thought and free, 
As the breeze flew o'er me : 

Now nae longer sport and play, 
Mirth or sang can please me ; 

Lesley is sae fair and coy, 
Care and anguish seize me. 

Heavy, heavy, is the task, 

Hopeless love declaring : 
Trembling, I dow noicht but glow'r 

Sighing, dumb, despairing ! 
If she winna ease the thraws, • 

In my bosom swelling ; 
Underneath the grass-green sod, 

Soon maun be my dwelling. 



SONG. 

Tcke — " Logan Water." 

O Loo an, sweetly didst thou glide, 
That day I was my Willie's bride ; 
And years sisnyne has o'er us run, 
Like Logan to the simmer sun. 
But now thy flow'ry banks appear 
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, 
While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes. 

Again the merry month o 1 May 
Has made our hills and valleys gay ; 
The birds rejoice in leafy bow'rs, 
The bees hum round the breathing flow'n 
Blithe morning lifts Wis rosy eye, 
And ev'ning's tears are tears of joy : 
My soul, delightless. a 1 surveys, 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 255 

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush ; 
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, 
Or wi' his song her care beguile ; 
But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes ! 

O wae upon you, men o' state, 
That brethren rouse to deadly hate ! 
As ye make mony a fond heart mourn, 
Sae may it on your heads return ! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy, 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry? 
But soon may peace bring happy days, 
And Willie, hame to Logan braes ! 



FRAGMENT, 

IN 

witherspoon's collection 

OF 

SCOTS SONGS. 
Air— " Hughie Graham." 

" O gin my love were yon red rose, 
That grows upon the castle wa', 

And I mysel a drop of dew, 
Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! 

'• Oh, there beyond expression blest, 
I'd feast on beauty a 1 the night ; 

Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, 
Tillfiey'd avva' by Phcebus' light." 



356 burns' poems. 

* O were my love yon lilac fair, 
Wi 1 purple blossoms to the spring , 

And I, a bird to shelter there, 
When wearied on his little wing : 

How I wad mourn, when it was torn 
By autumn wild, and winter rude ! 

But I wad sing on wanton wing, 
When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd. 



BONNIE JEAN. 

There was a lass, and she was fair, 
At kirk and market to be seen, 

When a' the fairest maids were met, 
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 

And ay she wrought her mammie's wark, 
And ay she sang sae merrilie : 

The blithest bird upon the bush 
Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That bless the little lintwhite's nest , 

And frost will blight the fairest flow'rs, 
And love will break the soundest rest. 

Young Robie was the brawest lad, 
The flower and pride o' a' the glen ; 

And he had owsen, sheep and key, 
And wanton naigies nine or ten. 

He caed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, 
He danc'd wi 1 Jeanie on the down ; 

And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, 

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. 

* These stanzas were added by Burnt. 



BURNS' POEMS. 251 

As in the bosom o' the stream, 
The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en ; 

So trembling, pure, was tender love, 
Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. 

And now she works her mammie's wark, 
And ay she sighs wi' care and pain ; 

Ye wist na what her ail might be, 
Or what wad mak her weel again. 

But did na Jeanie's heart loup light, 
And did na joy blink in her e'e, 

As Robie tauld a tale o' love, 
Ae e'enin on the lily lea ? 

The sun was sinking in the west, 
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove; 

His cKeek to hers he fondly prest, 
And whisper'd thus his tale o' love : 

Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear ; 

O canst thou think to fancy me ! 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, 
And learn to tent the farms wi' me ? 

At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge, 
Or naething else to trouble thee ; 

But stray amang the heather-bells, 
And tent the waving corn wi' me. 

Now what could artless Jeanie do f 
She had nae will to say him na : 

At length she blush 'd a sweet consent, 
And love was ay between them twa. 
17 



*58 BURNS' POEMS. 

PHILLIS THE FAIR 
Tunb— " Robin Adair.* 

While larks with little wings, 

Fann'd the pure air, 
Tasting the breathing spring, 

Forth I did fare : 
Gay the sun's golden eye, 
Peep'd o'er the mountains high : 
Such thy morn ! did I cry, 

Phillis the fair. 

In each bird's careless song, 

Glad did I share ; 
While yon wild flow'rs among, 

Chance led me there: 
Sweet to the opening day, 
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray 
Such thy bloom ! did I say, 

Phillis the fair. . 

Down in a shady walk, 

Doves cooing were, 
I mark'd the cruel hawk 

Caught in a snare : 
So kind may fortune be, 
Such make his destiny, 
He who would injure thee, 

Phillis the fair. 



SONG. 

To the same tune. 

Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing 
There would I weep my woes, [roar, 



BURNS' POEMS 259 

There seek my last repose, 
Till grief my eyes should close, 
Ne'er to wake more. 

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare, 
All thy fond plighted vows — fleeting as air I 

To thy new lover hie, 

Laugh o'er thy perjury, 

Then in thy bosom try, 

What peace ts there ! 



SONG 
Tcnb— " Allan Water." 
Bt Allan stream I chanc'd to rove, 

While Phaabus sank beyond Bonleddi ;• 
The winds were whispering thro' the grove, 

The yellow corn was waving ready ; 
I listen d to a lover's sang, 

And thought on youthm' pleasures mony ; 
And ay the wild-wood echoes rang — 

O, dearly do I love thee, Annie ! 

O, happy be the woodbine bower, 

Nae nightly bogle make it eerie ; 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, 

The place and time I met my dearie ! 
Her head upon my throbbing breast, 

She, sinking, said, "I'm thine forever !" 
While mony a kiss the seal imprest, 

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever. 

The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae, 
The simmer joys the flocks to follow ; 

•A mountain west of Strath Allan. 3,009 fee; tug* 



860 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

How cheery thro' her shortening day, 
li autumn, in her weeds o' yellow ; 

But can they melt the glowing heart, 
Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure, 

Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart, 
Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure f 



WHISTLE, AND I'LL GOME TO 
YOU, MY LAD. 

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad ; 
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. 

But warily tent, when ye come to court me, 
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee ; 
Syne up the back-stile, and let nae body see, 
And come as ye were na comin to me, 
And come, &c. 

whistle, $-c. 

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, 
Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie : 
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'«, 
Yet look as ye were na looking at me, 
Yet look, &c. 

O whistle, d/C. 

Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me, 
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee i 
But court na anither, tho' jolun ye be, 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me, 
For fear, &c. 

whistle, fa. 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 261 

SONG. 
TcifK— "The mucking o' Geordie's byre." 

A.down winding Nith I did wander, 
To mark the sweet flow'rs as they spring ; 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
Of Phillis to muse and to sing. 

CHORUS. 

Awa wV your belles and your beauties, 
They never wV her can compare ; 

WJiaever has met wi" 1 my Phillis, 
Has met wi" 1 the queen o' the fair. 

The daisy amus'd my fond fancy, 

So artless, so simple, so wild ; 
Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis, 

For she is simplicity's child. 
Awa, fa. 

The rose-bud 's the blush o' my charmer, 
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest ; 

How fair and how pure is the lily, 
But fairer and purer her breast. 
Awa, (J-c. 

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbor, 
They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie : 

Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine, 
Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye. 
Awa, fyc. 

Her voice is the song of the morning, 
That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove 

When PhcBbus peeps over the mountains, 
On music, and pleasure, and love. 
Awa, fyc. 

But beauty how frail and how fleeting, 
The bloom of a fine summer's day • 



862 BURNS' POEMS. 

While worth in the mind o" my Phillis 
Will flourish without a decay. 
Awa, ($*c. 



SONG. 
Am— " Cauld Kail." 

Come, let me take thee to my breast, 

And pledge we ne'er shall sunder ; 
And I shall spurn as vilest dust 

The warld's wealth and grandeur. 
And do I hear my Jeanie own, 

That equal transports move her ? 
I ask for dearest life alone 

That I may live to love her. 
Thus in my arms, wi' all thy charms, 

I clasp my countless treasure ; 
I'll count nae mair o 1 heaven to share ; 

Than sic a moment's pleasure: 
And by thy een, sae bonnie blue. 

I swear I'm thine forever ! 
And on thy lips I seal my vow, 

And break it shall I never. 



DAINTY DAVIE. 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her gay, green spreading bowers 
And now comes in my happy hours, 
To wander wi' my Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet me on the warlock knotoe, 
Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, 

There Vll spend the day wV you, 
My ain dear dainty Davie. 



BURNS' POEMS. 363 

% 
The crystal waters round us fa', 
The merry birds are lovers a\ 
The scented breezes round us blaw, 
A wandering wi' my Davie. 
Meet me, fa. 

When purple morning starts the hare 
To steal upon her early fare, 
Then thro 1 the dews I will repair, 
To meet my faithfu 1 Davie. 
Meet me, fyc. 

When day, expiring in the west, 
The curtain draws o' nature's rest, 
I'll flee to his arms I lo'e best, 
And that's my ain dear Davie. 
chorus. 
Meet me on the warlock knowe, 
Bonnie Davie, dainty Davie, 
There I'll spend the day wV you, . 
My ain dear dainty Davie. 



SONG. 
Tune — " Oran Gaoil." 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; 

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart 1 
Sever 'd from thee, can I survive ? 

But fate has will'd, and we must part. 
I'll often greet this surging swell, 

Yon distant isle will often hail : 
E'en here I took the last farewell ; 

There latest mark'd her vanish' d sail. 

Along the solitary shore, 
While flitting sea-fowl round me cry, 



2G4 BURNS' POEMS. 

Across the rolling, dashfng roar, 
I'll westward turn my wistful eye: 

Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say, 

Where now my Nancy's path may be '. 

While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray, 
tell me, does she muse on me ? 



SONG. 
Tune—" Fee him Father." 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left 
me ever, [me ever. 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left 

Aften hast thou vow'd that death, Only should 
us sever ! 

Now thou'st left thy lass for ay — I maun see 
thee never, Jamie, 
I'll see thee never. 

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me 
forsaken, [forsaken. 

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me 

Thou canst love anither jo, While my heart is 
breaking. [waken, Jamie, 

Soon my weary een I'll close — Never mair to 
Ne'er mair to waken. 



AULD LANG SYNE. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And never brought to min 1 ? 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And days o 1 lang syne ? 



BURNS' POEMS. 265 

CHORUS. 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll tak a cup o 1 kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 

We twa hae ran about the braes, 

And pu' the gowans fine ; 
But we've wandered mony a weary foot, 

Sin auld lang syne. 
For auld, fyc. 

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, 

Frae mornin sun till dine : 
But seas between us braid hae roar'd, 

Sin auld lang syne. 
For auld, fyc. 

And here's a hand, my trusty fier, 

And gie's a hand o' thine ; 
And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught, 

For auld lang syne. 
For auld, d/C. 

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, 

And surely I'll be mine ; 
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 
For auld, $c. 



BANNOOK-BURN. 

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY 

Scots, wha hae wi 1 Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to glorious victory. 



266 BURNS' POEMS. 

Now's the day, and now's the hour , 
See the frqpt o 1 battle lower; 
See approach proud Edward's power, 
Edward ! chains and slavery ! 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law, 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand, or freeman fa* , 
Caledonian ! on wi' me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins. 
But they shall be — shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low • 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Forward ! let us do, or die ' 



FAIR JENNY, 

Tunb— "Saw ye my father?" 

Where are the joys I have met in the morning, 
That danc'd to the lark's early song ? 

Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring, 
At evening the wild woods among ? 

No more a- winding the course of yon river. 
And marking sweet flow'rets so fair : 

No more I trace the light footsteps of pleafur* 
But sorrow and sad sighing care. 



DURNS' POEMS. 267 

191 it thai summer's forsaken our valleys, 

And grim surly winter is near ? 
No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses, 

Proclaim it the pride of the year. 

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover, 
Yet long, long too well have I known : # 

All that has caus'd this wreck in my bosom, 
la Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, 
Nor hope dare a comfort bestow : 

Come then, enamor'd and fond of my anguish, 
Enjoyment I'll seek in my wo. 



SONG. 
Tunk— " The Collier's Dochter." 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 
The fickle fair can give thee, 

Is but a fairy treasure, 

Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. 

The billows on the ocean, 
The breezes idly roaming, 

The clouds 1 uncertain motion, 
They are but types of woman. 

O art thou not ashamed, 

To dote upon a feature ? 
If man thou wouldst be named, 

Despise the silly creature. 

Go find an honest fellow ; 

Good claret set before thee : 
Hold on till thou art mellow, 

And then to bed in glory. 



868 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

SONG. 
Tune— "The Quaker's Wife." 

Thine am I, my faithful fair, 
Thine, my lovely Nancy; 
Ev'ry pulse along my veins, 
* Ev'ry roving fancy. 

To thy bosom lay my heart, 
There to throb and languish, 

Tho' despair had wrung its core, 
That would heal its anguish. 

Take away these rosy lips, 
Rich with balmy treasure : 

Turn away thine eyes of love, 
Lest I die with pleasure. 

What is life, when wanting love f 
Night without a morning : 

Love's the cloudless summer sun, 
Nature gay adorning. 



SONG. 

Tune— "To Janet." 

Husband, husband, cease your strife, 

Nor longer idly rave, Sir ; 
Tho' I am your wedded wife, 
Yet I am not your slave, Sir. 

" One of two must still obey, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Is it man or woman, say, 

My spouse, Nancy ?" 

If 'tis still the lordly word, 
Service and obedience ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 269 

I'll desert my sov 'reign lord, 
And so, good bye allegiance ! 

" Sad will I be, so bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Yet I'll try to make a shift, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

My poor heart then break it must, 

My last hour I'm near it : 
When you lay me in the dust 

Think, think how you will bear it. 

" I will hope and trust in Heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Strength to bear it will be given, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

Well, Sir, from the silent dead 

Still I'll try to daunt you ; 
Ever round your midnight bed 

Horrid sprites shall haunt you. 

"«f'll wed another like my dear 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Then all hell will fly for fear, 

My spouse, Nancy." 



IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE 

These verses were originally in English ; Burns ha* 
bestowed" on them a Scottish dress. 

Tune— "The Maid's Complaint." 

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face, 

Nor shape, that I admire, 
Although thy beauty and thy grace 

Might weel awake desire. 



270 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

Something, in ilka part o' thee, 
To praise, to love, I find ; 

But dear as is thy form to me, 
Still dearer is thy mind. 

Na mair ungen'rous wish I ha&, 

Nor stronger in my breast, 
Than if 1 canna mak thee sae, 

At least to see thee blest. 
Content am I, if heaven shall give 

But happiness to thee: 
And as wi' thee I'd wish to live, 

For thee I'd bear to die. 



BANKS OF OREE. 

Here is the glen, and here the bower, 
All underneath the birchen shade ; 

The village-bell has toll'd the hour,* 
O what can stay my lovely maid f 

'Tis not Maria's whispering call ; 

'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale • 
Mixt with some warbler's dying fall, 

The dewy star of eve to hail. 

It is Maria's voice I hear ! 

So calls the woodlark in the grove, 
His little faithful mate to cheer, 

At once 'tis music — and 'tis love. 

And art thou come ; and art thou true ! 

O welcome dear, to love and me ! 
And let us all their vows renew, 

Along the flowery banks of Cree. 



BURNS' POEMS. 271 

VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY, 

WITH A PRESENT OF SONOS. 

Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, 
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, 

Accept the' gift ; tho' humble he who gives, 
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 

So may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast, 
Discordant jar thy bosom-cbords among ; 

But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, 
Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song. 

Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears, 
As modest want the tale of wo reveals ; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endears, 
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. 



ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 
Turns— " O'er the Hills," &c. 

How can my poor heart be glad, 
When absent from my sailor lad ? 
How can I the thought forego, 
He's on the seas to meet the foe ? 
Let me wander, let me rove ; 
Still my heart is with my love ; 
Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day, 
Are with him that's far away. 

CHORUS. 

On the seas and far away, 

On stormy seas and far away : 
Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day, 
Are ay with him thaVsfar away. 

When in summer's noon I faint, 
As weary flocks around me pant, 



$72 BURNS' POEMS. 

Haply in this scorching sun 
My sailor's thundering at his gun ; 
Bullets, spare my only joy ! 
Bullets, spare my darling boy ! 
Fate, do with me what you may ; 
Spare but him that's far away ! 

On the seas, $c. 
At the starless midnight hour, 
When winter rules with bondless pow'r 
As the storms the forests tear, 
And thunders rend the howling air, 
Listening to the doubling roar, 
Surging on the rocky shore, 
All I can — I weep and pray, 
For his weal that's far away. 

On the seas, <$-c. 
Peace, thy olive wand extend, 
And bid wild war his ravage end, 
Man with brother man to meet, 
And as a brother kindly greet : 
Then may heaven with prosp'rous galea, 
Fill my sailor's welcome sails, 
To my arms their charge convey, 
My dear lad that's far away. 

On the seas, (J-c. 



SONG. 
Tome — " Ca' the Yowes to the Knowe*." 

CHORUS. 

Ca" 1 the yowes to the knowes, 
Ca" 1 them whare the heather grows, 
Co? them whare the burnie rows, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Hark, the mavis' evening song 
Sounding Clouden's woods amang; 



BURNS' POEMS. •- 273 

Then a-faulding let us gang, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Cd 1 the, (J-c. 

We'll gae down by C louden side, 
Thro' the hazels spreading wide, 
O'er the waves, that sweetly glide 
To the moon sae clearly. 
Crf the, £c. 

Y"onder Clouden's silent towers, 
Where at moonshine midnight hours, 
O'er the dewy bending flow'rs, 
Fairies dance sae cheery. 
Cd 1 the, (J-c. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 
Thou'rt to love and heav'n sae dear, 
Nocht of ill may come thee near, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Co 1 the, <J-c. 

Fair and lovely as thou art, 
Thou hast stown my very heart ; 
I can die — but canna part, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Co? the, (J-c. 



SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST 

OF A'. 

1 jke— " Onagh's Water-fall." 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 
Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 

Bewitchingly o'er-arching 
„_Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue. 
2B 18 



874 BURNS' POEMS. 

Her smiling sae wiling, 

Wad make a wretch forget his wo ; 
What pleasure, what treasure, 

Unto these rosy lips to grow ! 
Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, 

When first her bonnie face I saw ; 
And ay my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a\ 

Like harmony her motion ; 

Her pretty ankle is a spy 
Betraying fair proportion, 

Wad mak a saint forget the sky. 
Sae warming, sae charming, 

Her faultless form, and gracefu 1 air ; 
Ilk feature — auld Nature 

Declar'd that she could do nae mair : 
Her's are the willing chains o' love, 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law 
And ay my Chloris 1 dearest charm, 

She says she lo's me best of a'. 
> 
Let others love the city, 

And gaudy show at sunny noon , 
Gie me the lonely valley, 

The dewy eve, and rising moon ; 
Fair beaming, and streaming, 

Her silver light the boughs amang ; 
While falling, recalling, 

The amorous thrush concludes her sang t 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

Bv wimpling burn and leafy shaw, 
ind hear my vows o' truth and love, 

And say thou lo'es me best of a' ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 975 

SAW YE MY PHELY? 
( Quasi dicat Fhillis.) 
Tune— " When she cam ben she bobbit" 

O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new lore, 
She winna come hame to her Willy. 

What says she, my dearest, my Phely f 
What says she, my dearest, my Phely? 
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot, 
And forever disowns thee her Willy. 

O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, 
Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy. 



SONG. 
Tuke— " Cauld Kail in Aberdeen." 
How long and dreary is the night, 

When I am frae my dearie ; 
I restless lie frae e'en to morn, 
Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. 

CHORUS. 
For oh, her lanely nights are lang; 

And oh, her dreams are eerie; 
And oh, her widowed heart is sair t 

That's absent frae her dearie. 

When I think on the lightsome days 
I spent wi' thee, my dearie; 

And now what seas between us roar, 
How can I be but eerie ? 
For oh, (J-c. 



276 BURNS' POEMS. 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours 
The joyless day how dreary ! 

It was nae sae ye glinted by, 
When I was wi' my dearie. 
For oh, fyc. 



SONG. 
Tune — " Duncan Gray;" 

Let not woman e'er complain, 

Of inconstancy in love ; 
Let not woman e'er complain, 

Fickle man is apt to rove : 

Look abroad through Nature's range, 
Nature's mighty law is change ; 

Ladies, would it not be strange, 
Man should then a monster prove ? 

Mark the winds, and mark the skies ; 

Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow : 
Sun and moon but set to rise, 

Round and round the seasons go. 

Why then ask of silly man, 

To oppose great Nature's plan ? 

We'll be constant when we can — 
You can be no more, you know. 



THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE 
TO HIS MISTRESS. 
Tune— "Deil tak the Wars." 

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairert creature ; 
Rosy morn now lifts his eye, 



BURNS' POEMS. 477 

Numbering, ilka bud which Nature 

Waters wi' the teara o 1 joy : 

Now thro' the leafy woods, 

And by the reeking floods, 
Wild Nature's tenants freeiv, gdadly stray ; 

The hntwmte in nis bower 

Chants o'er the breathing flower ; 

The lav'rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' sangs o^ joy. 
While the sun dnd thou arise to bless the day 

Phoebus gilding the brow o' morning, 

Banishes ilk darksome shade, 
Nature gladdening and adorning ; 

Such to me, my lovely maid. 

When absent frae my fair, 

The murky shades o 1 care 
With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky j 

But when, in beauty's light, 

She meets my ravish'd sight, 

When through my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart ; 
'Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy. 



THE AULD MAN. 

But lately seen in gladsome green, 

The woods rejoic'd the day, 
Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers 

In double pride were gay : 
But now our joys are fled, 

On winter blasts awa ! 
Yet maiden May, in rich array* 

Again shall bring them a'. 

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 
Shall melt the sna'w's of age ; 



278 BURNS' POEMS. 

My trunk of eild, but buss or bield. 
Sinks in time's wintry rage. 

Oh, age has weary days, 

And nights o 1 sleepless pain ! 

Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, 
Why com' st thou not again! 



SONG 
Tune— "My lodging is on the cold ground." 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 

The primrose banks how fair : 
The balmy gales awake the flowers, 

And wave thy flaxen hair. 
The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, 

And o'er the cottage sings ; 
For Nature smiles as sweet, I ween, 

To shepherds as to kings. 
Let minstrels sweep the skillfu' string. 

In lordly lighted ha 1 : 
The shepherd stops his simple reed, 

Blithe, in the birken shaw. 
The princely revel may survey 

Our rustic dance wi 1 scorn ; 
But are their hearts as light as ours, 

Beneath the milk-white thorn? 
Tne shepherd, in the flowery glen, 

In shepherd's phrase will woo : 
The courtier tell's a finer tale, 

But is his heart as true ? 

These wild -wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 

That spotless breast o' thine ; 
The courtiers 1 gems may witness love— 

But Hie na love like mine. 



BURNS' POEMS. &T9 

SONG, 
ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH ONE. 

It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flow'rs were fresh arid gay, 
One morning, by the break of day, 
• The youthful, charming Chloe ; 

From peaceful slumber she arose, 
Girt on her mantle and her hose, 
And o'er the flowery mead she goes, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

CHORUS. 

Lovely was she by the dawn, 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 

Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

The feather'd people, you might see 
Perch 'd all around on every tree, 
In notes of sweetest melody, 
They hail the charming Chloe ; 

Till, painting gay the eastern skies, 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
Out-rival'd by the radiant eyes 
Of youthful, charming Chloe. 
Lovely was she, fyc. 



LASSIE WI' THE LINT-WHITE LOOXi 
Tune— " Rothemurchie's Rant." 

CHORUS. 

Lassie wV the lint-white locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 

Wilt thou wV me tent the flocks, 
Wilt thou be my dearie, O t 



OV BURNS' POEMS. 

Now nature deeds the flowery lea, 
And a' is young and sweet like thee ; 
O wilt thou share its joys wi' rne, 
And say thou'lt be my dearie. O ? 
Lassie tot 1 , fyc. 
And when the welcome simmer-shower, 
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower, 
At sultry noon, my dearie, 0. 
Lassie wi\ &/C. 
When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, 
The weary shearer's hameward way ; 
Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, 
And talk o 1 love, my dearie, O. 
Lassie tot 1 , $c. 
And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest ; 
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, 
I'll comfort thee, my dearie, O. 
Lassie wV the lint-white locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 
wilt thou wi' me tent thejlocks, 
Wilt thou be my dearie, ? 



SONG. 
Toiib—«* Nancy's to the Greenwood," *tc. 

Farewell thou stream, that winding flowi 

Around Eliza's dwelling ! 
O mem'ry ! spare the cruel throes 

Within my bosom swelling : 
Condemned to drag a hopeless chain, 

And yet in secret languish, 
To feel a fire in every vein, 

Nor dare disclose my anguish. 



BURNS' POEMS. 281 

Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, 

I fain my griefs would cover ; 
The bursting sigh, th 1 unweeting groan, 

Betray the hapless lover. 
I know thou doom'st me to despair, 

Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me ; 
But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer, 

For pity's sake, forgive me. 

The music of thy voice I heard, 

Nor wist while it enslav'd me ; 
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, 

Till fears no more had sav'd me ; 
Th 1 unwary sailor thus aghast, 

The wheeling torrent viewing ; 
'Mid circling horrors sinks at last 

In overwhelming ruin. 



DUETT. 

Tune—" The Sow'b Tail." 

he — Philly, happy be that day 

When roving through the gather'd hay, 
My youthfu' heart was stown away, 
And by thy charms, my Philly. 

•HE — Willy, ay I bless the grove 

Where first I own'd my maiden love, 
Whilst thou did pledge the Powers abort 
To be my ain dear Willy. 

HE — As songsters of the early year 
Are ilka day mair sweet to hear, 
So ilka day to me mair dear 
And charming is my Philly. 

«he — As on the brier the budding rose 

Still richer breathes, and fairer blowt, 



285J BURNS 1 POEMS. 

So in my tender bosom grows 
The love I bear my Willy. 

he — The milder sun and bluer sky, 

That crown my harvest cares wi'joy, 
Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye 
As is a sight o' Philly. 

ui — The little swallow's wanton wing, 
Tho 1 wafting o'er the flowery spring, 
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, 
As meeting o' my Willy. 

Hi — The bee that thro' the sunny hour 

Sips nectar in the opening flower, 

Compar'd wi' my delight is poor, 

Upon the lips o 1 Philly. 

iHi— The woodbine in the dewy weet, 

When evening shades in silence meet, 
Is notcht sae fragrant or sae sweet 
As is a kiss o' Willy. 
he — Let fortune's wheel at random rin, 

And fools may tine, and knaves may win; 
My thoughts are a' bound up in ane, 
And that's my ain dear Philly. 
she — What's a' the joys that gowd can gie ! 
I care nae wealth a single flie ; 
The lad I love's the lad for me, 
And that's my ain dear Willy. 



SONG. 
Time— " Lumps o' Pudding." 

Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, 
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 
[gie them a skelp, as they're creepin alang, 
Wi'a cog o' guid swats^nd an auld Scottish sang. 



BURNS' POEMS. 283 

I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome 

thought ; 
But man is a soger, and life is a faught : 
My mirth and guid humor are coin in my pouch 
And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch 

dare touch. 

A towmond o 1 trouble, should that be my fa', 
A night o 1 guid fellowship sowthers it a' : 
When at the blithe end o' our journey at last, 
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past? 

Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her 

way; 
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae : 
Come ease, or come travail ; come pleasure, 

or pain, [again !" 

My warst word is — " Welcome, and welcome 



OANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, 

MY KATY? 

Tune—" Roy's Wife.*' 

CHORUS. 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy t 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy t 
Well thou know'' st my aching heart, 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity t 
Is this thy plighted, fond regard, 

Thus cruelly to part, my Katy ? 
Is this thy faithful swain's reward — 
An aching, broken heart, My Katy ? 
Canst thou, fyc. 

Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear 
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ! 



tM BURNS' POEMS. 

Thou may's! find those will love thee dear- 
Bui not a love like mine, my Katy. 
Canst thou, <f*c. 



MY NANNIE'S AWA. 
Tune — "There'll never be peace," &c. 

Now in her green mantle blithe Nature arrays, 
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the 

braes, 
While birds warble welcome in ilka green 

shaw ; 
But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa. 

The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands 

adorn, 
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn ; 
They pain my sad bosom, so sweetly they blaw, 
They mind me o' Nannie — and Nannie's awa. 

Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the 
lawn, [dawn, 

The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking 
And thou, mellow mavis, that hails the night-fa'. 
Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa. 

Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and gray, 
And soothe me wi' tidings o' Nature's decay : 
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw, 
Alane can delight me — now Nannie's awa. 



FOR A' THAT, AND A' THAT 

Is there, for honest poverty, 

That hangs his head, and a 1 that ; 

The coward-slave, we pass hirn by, 
We dare be poor for a' that ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 265 

For a 1 that, and a' that, 

Our toil's obscure, and a' that, 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 

The man's the gowd for a' that. 

What tho' on hamely fare we dine, 

Wear hodden gray, and a' that ; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 

A man's a man for a' that ; 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, and a' that ; 
The honest man, though e'er sae poor, 

Is king o' men for a' that. 

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that ; 
Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a coof for a' that : 
For a' that, and a' that, 

His riband, star, and a 1 that, 
The man of independent mind, 

He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belled knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 

Guid faith he mauna fa' that ! 
For a' that, and a 1 that, 

Their dignities, and a' that, 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, 

Are higher ranks than a' that. 

Then let us pray, that come it may, 

As come it will for a' that, 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 

May bear the gree, and a' that ; 
For a' that, and a' that, 

It's coming yet, for a' that, 
That man to man, the warld o'er, 

ShalJ brothers be for a' that. 



286 BURNS' POEMS. 

SONG. 
Tune— "Craigie-burn Wood." 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, 
And blithe awakes the morrow, 

But a' the pride o' spring's return 
Can yield me nocht but sorrow. 

I see the flow'rs and spreading trees, 

I hear the wild birds singing ; 
But what a weary wight can please, 

And care his bosom wringing ? 
Fain, fain would I my grief impart, 

Yet dare na for your anger ; 
But secret love will break my heart, 

If I conceal it langer. 
If thou refuse to pity me, 

If thou shalt love anither, 
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree 

Around my grave they'll wither. 



SONG. 

Tone—" Let me in this ae night." 

O lassie, art thou sleeping yet ? 
Or art thou wakin, I would wit? 
For love has bound me hand and foot, 
And I would fain be in, jo. 

CHORUS. 

let me in this ae night, 

This ae. ae, ae night ; 
For pity's sake this night, 

rise and let me in, jo. 

Thou hears't the winter-wind and west, 
Nae star blinks thro* the driving sleet 



BURNS' P0EM8. 287 

fak pity on my weary feet, 
And shield me frae the rain, jo. 
let me in, fyc. 
The bitter blast that round me blaws. 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause 
Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 

let me in, &c. 



HER ANSWER. 
O tell na me o' wind and rain, 
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain ! 
Gae back the gate ye cam again, 
I winna let youin, jo. 

CHORUS. 
J tell you now this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night / 

And ancefor a' this ae night, 

I winna let you in, jo. 

The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, 

That round the pathless wand'rer pours, 

Is nocht to what poor she endures, 

That's trusted faithless man, jo, 

1 tell you now, <£e. 
The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead, 
Now trodden like the vilest weed ; 
Let simple maid the lesson read, 
The weird may be her ain, jo, 

/ tell you now, (£e. 
The bird that charm'd his summer-day, 
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
Let witless, trusting woman say, 
How aft her fate's the same, jo, 

/ tell you now, $-c. 



288 BURNS' POEMrf. 

ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK 

Tune — " Where'll bonnie Ann lie?" Or, "Loch- 

Eroch Side." 

stay, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray, 

A hapless lover courts thy lay, 
Thy soothing, fond complaining. 

Again, again that tender part, 

That 1 may catch thy melting art ; 

For surely that wad touch her heart, 
Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 

Say, was thy little mate unkind, 

And heard thee as the careless wind? 

Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd, 
Sic notes o' wo could wauken. 

Thou tells o 1 never-ending care ; 

1 speechless grief, and dark despair; 
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair! 

Or my poor heart is broken ' 



ON CHLORIS BEING ILL 
Tune—" Ay wakin O." 

CHORUS. 
Long, long the night, 

Heavy comes the morrow, 
While my souVs delight 

Is on her bed of sorrow. 

Can I cease to care? 

Can I cease to languish, 
While my darling fair 

Is on the couch of anguish? 
Long, $c. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

Every hope is fled, 
Every fear is terror ; 

Slumber even I dread, 
Every dream is horror ! 
Long, <$-c. 

Hear me, Powr's divine ! 

Oh, in pity hear me! 
Take aught else of mine, 

But my Chloris spare me ! 
Long, (J-c. 



SONG. 
Tune — " Humors of Glen." 

Theib groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands 

reckon, [perfume, 

Where bright-beaming summers exalt the 

Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, 

Wi 1 the burn stealing under the lang yellow 

broom. 

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, 

Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly 

unseen : 

For there, lightly tripping amang the wild 

flowers, 

A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny val- 
leys, 
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the 
proud palace, [slave ! 

What are they ? The haunt of the tyrant and 
2C 19 



290 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling 
fountains, 
The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; 
He wanders ae free as the winds of his moun- 
tains, [Jean. 
Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his 



SONG. 

Tunk— •' Laddie, lie near me." 

'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin ; 
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing : 
'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind 
us, [kindness. 

'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' 
Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me ; 
But tho 1 fell fortune should fate us to sever, 
Queen shall she be in my bosom forever. 

Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, 
And thou hast plighted me love o 1 the dearest 
And thou'rt the angel thar never can alter, 
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. 



ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH 

SONG. 

Tuke— " John Anderson my Jo." 

How cruel are the parents, 

Who riches only prize, 
And to the wealthy booby, 

Poor woman sacrifice. 



BURNS' POEMS. 291 

Meanwhile the hapless daughter, 

Has but a choice of strife ; 
To shun a tyrant father's hate, 

Become a wretched wife. 

The ravening hawk pursuing, 

The trembling dove thus flies, 
To shun impending ruin, 

A while her pinions tries ; 
Till of escape despairing, 

No shelter or retreat, 
She trusts the ruthless falconer, 

And drops beneath his feet. 



SONS. 

Tune—" Deil tak the Wars." 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, 

Round the wealthy, titled bride: 
But when compar'd with real passion, 
Poor is all that princely pride. 
What are the showy treasures ? 
What are the noisy pleasures ? 

The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art : 
The polish'd jewel's blaze 
May draw the wond'ring gaze, 
And courtly grandeur bright 
The fancy may delight, 

But never, never can come near the heart. 

But did you see my dearest Chloris, 

In simplicity's array ; 

Shrinking from the gaze of day. 
Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower i* 

O then, the heart alarming, 

And all resistless charming, 



992 BURNS' POEMS. 

In Love's delightful fetters she chains thf 
willing soul ! 

Ambition would disown 

The world's imperial crown ; 

Even Avarice would deny 

His worship'd deity, 
And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll 



SONG- 
"Tune — This is no my ain House." 

CHORUS. 
this ts no my ain lassie, 

Fair tho' the lassie be ; 

weel ken I my ain lassie, 

Kind love is in her e'e. 

I see a form, I see a face, 
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place , 
It wants, to me, the witching grace, 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
this is no, $c. 

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall 
And lang has had my heart in thrall ; 
And ay it charms my very saul, 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
this is no, $c. 

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 
To steal a blink, by a' unseen ; 
But gleg as light are lovers' een, 
When kind love is in the e'e. 
O this is no, (J-c. 

It may escape the courtly sparks, 
It may escape the learned clerks ; 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 293 

But weel the watching lover marks 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
this is no, (f-c. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
SCOTTISH SONS. 

Now spring has clad the groves in green, 

And strew'd the lea wi flowers ; 
The furrow'd, waving corn is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers ; 
While ilka thing in nature join 

Their sorrows to forego, 
O why thus all alone are mine 

The weary steps of wo ! 

The trout within yon wimplin burn 

Glides swift, a silver dart, 
And safe beneath the shady thorn 

Defies the angler's art : 
My life was ance that careless stream, 

That wanton trout was I ; 
But love, wi' unrelenting beam, 

Has scorch'd my fountains dry. 

The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, 

In yonder cliff that grows, 
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, 

Nae ruder visit knows, 
Was mine ; till love has o'er me past, 

And blighted a' my bloom, 
And now beneath the withering blast 

My youth and joys consume. 

The waken'd lav'rock, warbling, spring!), 
And climbs the early sky, 



.94 BURNS' POEMS. 

W innowing blithe her dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye ; 
As little reckt I sorrow's power, 

Until the flowery snare 
0' witching love, in luckless hour, 

Made me the thrall o 1 care. 

had my fate been Greenland snows, 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
WT man and nature leagu'd my foes, 

So Peggy ne'er I'd known ! 
The wretch whase doom is, "hope nae mak, 

What tongue his woes can tell ! 
Within whase bosom, save despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwell. 



SCOTTISH SONG. 

bonnie was yon rosy brier, 

That blooms sae far frae haunt o 1 man, 
And bonnie she, and ah, how dear ! 

It shaded frae the e'enin sun. 

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew, 

How pure amang the leaves sae green ; 

But purer was the lover's vow 

They witness'd in their shade yestreen. 

All in its rude and prickly bower, 

That crimson rose, how sweet and fair ! 

But love is far a sweeter flower, 
Amid life's thorny path o' care. 

The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, 
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 

And I, the world, nor wish, nor scorn, 
Its joys and griefs alike resign. 



BURNS' POEMS. 295 

WRITTEN on a blank leaf of a copy of kig 
Poems presented to a Lady, whom he had eft** 
celebrated under the name of Chlorin. 

*Tis friendship's pledge, my young, fair friead, 

Nor thou the gift refuse, 
Nor with unwilling ear attend 

The moralizing muse. 

Since thou, in all thy youth and charnaa, 

Must bid the world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms; 

To join the friendly few : 

Since thy gay morn of life o'ercast, 

Chill came the tempest's lower: 
(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 

Did nip a fairer flower.) 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more, 

Still much is left behind ; 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store, 

The comforts of the mind ! 

Thine is the self-approving glow, 

On conscious honor's part ; 
And, dearest gift of heaven below, 

T nine friendship's truest heart. 

The joys refin'd of sense and taste, 

With every muse to rove ; 
And doubly were the poet blest, 

These joys could he improve. 



ENGLISH SONG. 

Tdnb— "Let me in this ae night." 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, 
Far, far from thee, I wander here, 



896 BURNS' POEMS. 

Far, far from thee, the fate severe 
At which I most repine, love. 

CHORUS. 

wert thou, love, but near me, 
But near, near, near me ; 
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me, 
And mingle sighs with mine, love. 

Around me scowls a wintry sky, 
That blasts each bud of hope and joy ; 
And shelter, shade, nor home have I, 
Save in those arms of thine, love. 
wert, fyc. 

Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part, 
To poison fortune's ruthless dart- 
Let me not break thy faithful heart, 
And say that fate is mine, love. 
wert, <§-c. 

But dreary tho 1 the moments fleet, 
let me think we yet shall meet ! 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, love 
wert d/C. 



SCOTTISH BALLAD. 
Tuwe— " The Lothian Lassie." 

Last May a braw wooer cam down the Iang 
glen, 
And sair wi' his love he did deave me; 

I said there was naething 1 hated like men, Tme, 
The diuice gae wi'm, to believe me, btliuve 
The deuce ffae wi'm. to believe me. 



BURNS' POEMS. 297 

H* spak o the darts in my bonnie black e'en, 

Arid vow'd for my love he was dying ; 
I ->iid he might die when he liked, for Jean, 

The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying, 

The Lord forgie me for lying ! 
V weel-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird, 

And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers: 
i never loot on that 1 kenn'd it, or car'd, [offers. 

But thought 1 might hae waur offers, waui 

But thought I might hae waur offers. 
But what wad ye think ? in a fortnight or less, 

The deil tak his taste to gae near her ! 
lie up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess, 

Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her, 
could bear her, 

Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. 
But a 1 the niest week, as T fretted wi' care, 

I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, 
And wha but my fine fickle lover was there, 

I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 

I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock. 
But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, 

Lest neebors might say I was saucy ; 
My wooer he caperd as he'd been in drink, 

And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, 

And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 

I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, 
Gin she had recover'd her hearin, [feet. 

And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl't 
But, heavens! how he fell a swearin, a swearin, 
But heavens ! how he fell a swearin. 

tie begged, for Gudesake ! I wad be his wife, 
Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow : 

So e'en to preserve the poor body in life, [row f 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-mor- 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow. 
2D 



BURNS' POEMS. 

FRAGMENT. 
Tune—" The Caledonian Hunt's Delight." 

Why, why tell thy lover, 

Bliss he never must enjoy ! 
Why, why undeceive him, 

And give all his hopes the lie t 

O why, while fancy, raptur'd, slumbere, 
Chloris, Chloris all the theme ; 

Why, why wouldst thou cruel, 
Wake thy lover from his dream? 



HEY FOR A LASS WI' A TOCHER. 

Tune— 4 ' Balinamona ora." 

Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms , 
0, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, 
O, gie me the lass wi 1 the weel-stockit farms. 



Then hey, for a lass wV a tocher, then hey fo^ 

a lass wV a tocher, 
Then hey, for a lass wV a tocher ; the nice yeh 

low guineas for me. 

Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that 

blows, 
And withers the faster, the faster it grows.; 
But the rapturous charm o 1 the bonnie green 

knowes, [yowes, 

Tlk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white 
Then hey, <$-c. 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 299 

A.nd e'en when this beauty your bosom has 
blest, [sest; 

The brightest o 1 beauty may cloy, when pos- 

But the sweet yellow darlings, wi 1 Geordie im- 
prest, 

The langer ye hae them — the mair they're carest. 
Then hey, fyc. 



SONG. 

T»»k— " Here e a health to them that'i awa,hlney." 

CHORUS. 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, 
Here's a health to ane I We dear ; [meet, 
Tliou art sweet as the smile tckenfond lovers 
And soft as their parting tear— Jessy ! 

Altho' thou maun never be mine, 

Altho 1 even hope is denied ; 
'Tis sweeter for thee, despairing, 

Than aught in the world beside — Jessy ! 
Here^s a health, fyc. 

1 mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day, 
As, hopeless, T muse on thy charms ; 

But welcome the dream o 1 sweet slumber, 
For then I am lockt in thy arms — Jessy ! 
Here's a health, <$-c. 

I guess, by the dear angle smile, 
I guess, by the love-rolling e'e ; 

But why urge the tender confession 
'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree — Jessy! 
Here's a health, &c. 



300 BURNS' POEMS. 

SONG. 
Tune—" Rothermurchies' Rant." 



Fairest maid on Devon banks, 
Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 

Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 
And smile as thou were wont to do t 

Full well thou know'st I love thee, dear, 
Couldst thou to malice lend an ear ! 
O, did not love exclaim, " Forbear, 
Nor use a faithful lover so ?" 
Fairest maid, $c. 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair, 
Those wonted smiles, O, let me share, 
And by thy beauteous self, I swear, 
No love but thine my heart shall know. 
Fairest maid, $c. 



THE BIRKS OF ABERFELD/. 

Bonnie lassie, will ye go, will ye go, will ye go, 
Bonnie lassie, will ye go to the birks of Aberfeldyt 

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, 
Come let us spend the lightsome days. 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, &c. 

While o'er their heads the hazels hing, 
The little birdies blithly sing, 
Or lightly flit on wanton wing, 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, <$>c. 



BURNS' POEMS. 301 

The braes ascend like lofty wa's, 
The foaming stream deep-roaring fa's, 
O'er-hung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, fyc, 

The hoary cliffs are crown' d wi' flowers, 
White o'er the linns the burnie pours, 
And rising, weets wi' misty showers, 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, fyc 

Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, 
Supremely blest wi 1 love and thee, 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, <$-c. 



STAY, MY CHARMER, CAN YOU 

LEAVE ME? 

Tune— «' An Gille dubh ciar-dhubh." 

Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ? 

Cruel, cruel to deceive me ! 

Well you know how much you grieve me ; 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 

Cruel charmer, can you go? 

By my love, so ill requited; 

By the faith you fondly plighted; 

By the pangs of lovers slighted ; 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 

Do not do not leave me so ! 



J09 BURNS' POEMS. 

STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT 

Thickest night o'erhang my dwelling, 
Howling tempests o'er me rave ! 

Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, 
Still surround my lonely cave ! 

Crystal streamlets, gently flowing, 
Busy haunts of base mankind, 

Western breezes, softly blowing, 
Suit not my distracted mind. 

In the cause of right engaged, 
Wrongs injurious to redress. 

Honor's war we strongly waged, 
But the heavens deny'd success. 

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, 
Not a hope that dare attend, 

The wide world is all before us — 
But a world without a friend ! 



THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER 
Tune—" Morag." 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes, 

The snaws the mountains cover; 
Like winter on me seizes. 

Since my young Highland Rover 

Far wanders nations over. 
Where'er he go, where'er he stray, 

May Heaven be his warden : 
Return him safe to fair Srathspey, 

And bonnie Castle-Gordon ! 

The trees now naked groaning, 
Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging. 



BURNS' POEMS. 303 

The birdies dowie moaning, 

Shall a 1 be blithly singing, 

And every flower be springing. 
Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day, 

When by his mighty warden, 
My youth's return'd to fair Strathspey, 

And bonnie Castle-Gordon. 



RAVING WINDS AROUND HE 
BLOWING. 
Tune— " M'Grigor of Ruaro's Lament." 

Raving winds around her blowing, 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella stray'd deploring. 
" Farewell, hours that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ; 
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, 
Cheerless night that knows no morrow. 

" O'er the past too fondly wandering, 
On the hopeless future pondering ; 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, 
Fell de 



Fell despair my fancy seizes, 
Life, thou soul of every blessing, 
Load to misery most distressing, 
O how gladly I'd resign thee, 
And to dark oblivion join thee !" 



MUSING ON THE ROARING OOEAH 
Tdnk— " Druimion dubh." 

Musing on the roaring ocean, 
Which divides my love and me ; 



304 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

Wearying Heav'n in warm devotion, 
For his weal where'er he be. 

Hope and fear's alternate billow, 
Yielding late to nature's law ; 

Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow 
Talk of him that's far awa. 

Ye whom sorrow never wounded, 
Ye who never shed a tear, 

Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded, 
Gaudy day to you is dear. 

Gentle night, do thou befriend me; 

Downy sleep, the curtain draw ; 
Spirits kind, again attend me, 

Talk of him that's far awa ! 



BLITHE WAS SHE. 

Blithe, blithe and merry was she, 
Blithe was she but and ben : 

Blithe by the ba7iks of Em, 

And blithe in Glenturit glen. 

By Oughtertyre grows the aik, 

On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw \ 

But Phemie was a bonnier lass 
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw, 
Blithe, &c. 

Her looks were like a flower in May, 
Her smile was like a simmer morn ; 

She tripped by the banks of Em, 
As light 's a bird upon a thorn. 
Blithe, £c. 



BURNS' POEMS. 305 

Her bonnie face it was as meek 

As ony lamb upon a lee ; 
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 

As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e. 
Blithe, #c. 

The Highland hills Pve wander'd wide, 
And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ; 

But Phemie was the blithest lass 
That ever trod the dewy green. 
Blithe, £c. 



i ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK 

A rose-bud by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk 
All on a dewy morning. 

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled 
In a' its crimson glory spread, 
And drooping rich the dewy head, 
It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest 
A. little linnet fondly prest, 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 
Sae early in the morning. 

She soon shall see her tender brood, 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd, 
Awake the early morning. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jenny fair, 
On trembling string or vocal air, 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 
That tents thy early morning. 
2U 



306 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

^o thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, 
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day, 
And bless the parent's evening ray 
That watch'd thy early morning. 



WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WIN 

TER'S STORMS. 

Tumi — a N. Gow's Lamentation for Abercairny." 

Where braving angry winter's storms, 

The lofty Ochils rise, 
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 

First blest my wondering eyes. 
As one, beside some savage stream, 

A lovely gem surveys, 
Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam, 

With art's most polish'd blaze. 

Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade, 

And blest the day and hour, 
Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd 

When first I felt their pow'r ! 
The tyrant death with grim control 

May seize my fleeting breath ; 
But tearing Peggy from my soul 

Must be a stronger death. 



TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY 
Tune— "Ivercald's Reel." 

CHORUS. 

Tibbie, 1 hae seen the day, 
Ye would nae been sae shy ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 30* 

For laik o y gear ye lightly me, 
But trowth, 1 care na by. 

Yestreen I met you on the moor, 
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure : 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor, 
But feint a hair care I. 

Tibbie, I hae, fa. 

I doubt na, lass, but you may think, 
Because ye hae the name o' clink, 
That ye can please me at a wink, 
Whene'er you like to try. 
Tibbie, 1 hae, fa. 

But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, 
Altho 1 his pouch o 1 coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy quean 
That looks sae proud and high. 
Tibbie, I hae, fa. 

Altho 1 a lad were e'er sae smart, 
If that he want the yellow dirt, 
Yell cast your head anither airt, 
And answer him m 1 drv. 
Tibbie, I hae, fa. 

But if he hae the name o' gear, 
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, 
Tho' hardly he for sense, or lear, 
Be better than the kye. 

Tibbie, I hae, fa. 

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, 
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice, 
The deil a ane wad spier your price, 
Were ye as poor as I. 

Tibbie, 1 hae, fa. 

There lives a lass in yonder park, 
I would na gie her in her sark, 



308 BURNS' POEMS. 

For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark 
Ye need na look sae high. 
Tibbie, I hae, &c. 



CLARINDA. 

Clarinda, mistress of my soul, 
The measur'd time is run ! 

The wretch beneath the dreary pole, 
So marks his latest sun. 

To what dark cave of frozen night 

Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, 

The sun of all his joy. 

We part — but by these precious drops 

That fill thy lovely eyes ! 
No other light shall guide my steps 

Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fair sun of all her sex, 
Has blest my glorious day : 

And shall a glimmering planet fix 
My worship to its ray ? 



THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM 

BURNS. 

Tune—" Seventh of November." 

The day returns, my bosom burns, 
The blissful day we twa did meet, 

Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd, 

Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet. 

Than a 1 the pride that loads the tide, 
And crosses o'er the sultry line ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 309 

Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes, 
Heaven gave me more— it made thee mine. 

While day and night can bring delight, 

Or nature aught of pleasure give ; 
While joys above, my mind can move, 

For thee and thee alone, I live ! 
When that grim foe of life below, 

Comes in between to make us part ; 
The iron hand that breaks our band, 

It breaks my bliss,— it breaks my heart. 



THE LAZY MIST. 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, 

Concealing the course of the dark winding rill ; 

How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, ap- 
pear, 

As autumn to winter resigns the pale year ! 

The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, 

And all the gay foppery of summer is flown ; 

Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, 

How quick time is flying, how keen fate pur- 
sues ; 

How long I have liv'd— but how much liv'd 
in vain : 

How little of life's scanty span may remain : 

What aspects, old Time, in his progress, has 
worn ; 

What ties, cruel fate in my bosom has torn. 

How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd ! 

And downward, how weaken'd, how darken' d, 
how pain'd ! 

This life's not worth having with all it can give, 

For something beyond it poor man sure rau»< 
!:ve. 



310 BURNS' POEMS. 

O, WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL! 

Tune — " My love is lost to me." 

0, were I on Parnassus 1 hill ! 
Or had of Helicon my fill ; 
That I might catch poetic skill, 

To sing how dear I love thee ! 
But Niih maun be my muse's well, 
My muse maun be thy bonnie sel ; 
On Corsincon I'll glowr and spell, 

And write how dear I love thee. 

Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay ! 
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day, 
1 coudna sing, I coudna say, 

How much, how dear I love thee. 
I see thee dancing o'er the green, 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, 
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een — 

By heaven and earth, I love thee ! 

By night, by day, a-field, at hame, 

The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; 

And ay I muse and sing thy name, 

I only live to love thee. 
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on, 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, 
Till my last weary sand was run ; 

Till then — and then I love thee. 



I LOVE MY JEAN. 
Tune — " Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey.* 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best : 



BURNS' POEMS. 311 

There wild woods grow, and rivers flow. 

And mony a hill between ; 
But day and night, my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

1 see her in the dewy flow'rs, 

I see her sweet and fair : 
I hear her in the tunefiT birds, 

I hear her charm the air : 
There's not a bonnie tlower that springs, 

By fountain, shaw, or green, 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 

But minds me o 1 my Jean. 



HE BRAES O' BALLOOHMYLE 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen, 

The flowers decay'd on Catrine lee, 
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, 

But nature sicken'd on the e'e. 
Thro' faded grove Maria sang, 

Hersel in beauty's bloom the while, 
And ay the wild-wood echoes rang, 

Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, 
Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair ; 

Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers, 
Again ye' 11 charm the vocal air. 

But here, alas ! for me nae mair 

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile ; 

Fareweel the bonnie banks of A 



Fareweel, fareweel ! sweet Ballochmyle 



ilO( 



313 BURNS' POEMS. 

WILLIE BEEW'D A PECK O'MAUT 

O, willie brew'd a peck o' maut, 
And Rob and Allan came to see ; 

Three blither hearts, that lee-lang night, 
Ye wad na find in Chrislendie. 

We are nafou, we're na that fou, 
But just a drappie in our e'e ; 

The cock may craw, the day may daw, 
And ay we'll taste the barley bree. 

Here are we met, three merry boys. 
Three merry boys, I trow are we ; 

And mony a night we've merry been, 
And mony mae we hope to be ! 
We are nafou, (J-c. 

It is the moon, I ken her horn, 
That's blinkin in the lift sae hie ; 

She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, 
But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee ! 
We are nafou, <fc. 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa, 
A cuckold, coward loon is he ! 

Wha last beside his chair shall fa', 
He is the king amang us three ! 
We are nafou, $-c. 



THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE. 

I gaed a waefu' gate, yestreen, 
A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ; 

I gat my death frae twa sweet een, 
Twa lovely een o 1 bonnie blue. 



BURNS' POEMS. 313 

'Twas not her golden ringlets bright ; 

Her lips like roses wat wi' dew, 
Her heaving bosom, lily-white ; — 

It was her een sae bonnie blue. 

She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wil'd, 

She charm'd my soul 1 wist na how ; 
And ay the stound, the deadly wound, 

Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. 
But spare to speak, and spare to speed ; 

She'll aiblins listen to my vow : 
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead 

To her twa een sae bonnie blue. 



THE BANKS OF NITH 

Tune — " Robie Dona Gorach." 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea, 

Where royal cities stately stand ; 
But sweeter flows the Nith to me, 

Where Commins ance had high command . 
When shall I see that honor' d land, 

That winding stream I love so deai i 
Must wayward fortune's adverse hand 

Forever, ever keep me here ? 

Plow lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, 

Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom ; 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales, 

Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom ! 
Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom, 

Far from thy bonnie banks and braes, 
May there my latest hours consume, 

Amang the friends of early days ' 
Ah 



314 BURNS' POEMS. 

JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. 

JonN Anderson my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent ; 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is bald, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither; 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither : 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand and hand we'll go, 
And sleep thegither at the wot, 

John Anderson my jo. 



TAM GLEN. 

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie, 
Some counsel unto me come len 1 , 

To anger them a' is a pity ; 
But what will 1 do wi' Tarn Glen ? 

I'm thinkin, wi 1 sic a braw fellow,. 

In poortith I might mak a fen' ; 
What care I in riches to wallow, 

If I maunna marry Tam Glen ? 

There's Lowrie the laird o' Drummeller, 
" Guid day to you, brute," he comes beni 

He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 

But when will he dance like Tam Glen t 

My minnie does constantly deave me, 
And bids me beware of young men , 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 315 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me, 
But wha can think sae o' Tarn Glen f 

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, 
He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten : 

But, if it's ordairfd I maun tak him, 
wha will 1 get but Tarn Glen ? 

Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing, 
My heart to my mou gied a sten ; 

For thrice I drew ane without failing, 
And thrice it was written, Tarn Glenf 

The last Halloween I was waukin 
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken, 

His likeness cam up the house staukin. 
And the very gray breeks o' Tarn Glen ! 

Come counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry ; 

I'll g>e you my bonnie black hen, 
Gif ye will advise me to marry 

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tarn Glen. 



MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL 

O meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty, 

And meikle thinks my luve o' my. kin ; 
But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie, 

My tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 
It's a 1 for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; 

It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee ; 
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, 

He canna hae luve to spare for me. 

Your proffer o' luve's an airl-penny, 
My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; 

But an ye be crafty, I am eunnin, 
Sae ye wi' ariither your fortune may try. 



316 BURNS' POEMS. 

Ye' re like to the trimmer o' yon rotten wood, 
Ye're like to the bark of yon rotten tree, 

Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread, 
And ye'll crack your credit wi 1 mae nor rue. 



THEN GUIDWIFE COUNT THE 
LAWIN. 

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night, 
But we'll ne'er stay for faute o' light, 
For ale and brandy's stars and moon, 
And bluid-red wine 's the rysin sun. 

Then guidwife count the lawin, the lawin, tht 

la win, [coggie mair. 

Then guidwife count the lawin, and bring a 

There's wealth and ease for gentlemen, 
And semple-folk maun fecht and fen' ; 
But here we're a' in ae accord, 
For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 

Then guidwife count, $c. 

My coggie is a haly pool, 
That heals the wounds o' care and dool ; 
And pleasure is a wanton trout, 
An' ye drink it a' yell find him out. 
Then guidwife count, ~fyc. 



WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE Dt 
WI' AN AULD MAN? 

What can a young lassie, what shall a young 
lassie, 
What can a young lassie do wi' an auld manf 



BURNS' POEMS. 31? 

Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minme 
To sell her poor Jennie for siller an' Ian' ! 
Bad luck on the pennie, (J-c. 
He's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin, 
He hosts and he hirples the weary dav lang ; 
He's doylt and he's dozen, hisbluid'it is frozen, 
O, dreary's the night with a crazy auld man ! 
He hums and he hankers, he frets and he can- 
kers, 
I ? never can please him, do a' that I can ; 
He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fel- 
lows : 
O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man ! 
My auld auntie Katie upon me taks pity, 
I'll do my endeavor to follow her plan'; 
I'll cross him, and wrack him, until 1 heart 
break him, [ {)aa 

And then his auld brass will buy me a new 



THE BONNIE WEE THING 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 

Lovely wee thing, wast thou mine, 
I wad wear thee in my bosom, 

Lest my jewel I should tine. 
Wishfully I look and languish 

In that bonnie face o' thine ; 
And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, 

Lest my wee thing be na mine. 
Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty, 

In ae constellation shine ; 
To adore thee is my duly, 

Goddess of this soul o' mine ! 
Bonnie wee, A-e. 



318 BURNS' POEMS. 

O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, TAM 
Tone—" The Moudiewort." 

An 0, for one and twenty, Tam .' 
An hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tarn ' 

I'll learn my kin a rattlin sang, 
An 1 saw ane and twenty, Tarn. 

They snool me sair, and haud me down, 
And gar me look, like bluntie, Tarn ! 

But three short years will soon wheel roun ' 
And then comes ane and twenty, Tarn, 
An 0,for ane, d/C. 

A gleib o 1 Ian', a claut o' gear, 
Was left me by my auntie, Tarn ! 

At kith or kin I needna spier, 
An I saw ane and twenty, Tam ! 
An 0, for ane, $c. 

They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 
Tho 1 I mysel 1 hae plenty, Tam ; 

But hear'st thou, laddie, there's my loof, 
I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tam ! 
An 0, for ane, (J-c. 



BESS AND HER SPINNING WHEEL 

O leeze me on my spinning wheel, 
O leeze me on my rock and reel, 
Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien, 
And haps me fiel and warm at e'en ! 
I'll set me down and sing and spin, 
While laigh descends the simmer sun, 
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal- 
O leeze me on my spinning wheel. 



BURNS' POEMS. 319 

On ilka hand the burnies trot, ^ 

And meet below my theekit cot ; 
The scented birk and hawthorn white 
Across the pool their arms unite, 
Alike to screen the birdie's nest, 
And little fishes' caller rest : 
The sun blinks kindly in the biel', 
Where blithe I turn my spinning wheel. 

On lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
And echo cons the doolfu' tale ; 
The lintwhites in the hazel braes, 
Delighted, rival ither lays : 
The craik amang the claver hay, 
The paitrick whirrin o'er the ley, 
The swallow jinkin round my shiel, 
Amuse me at my spinning wheel. 

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy, 
O wha wad leave this humble state, 
For a' the pride of a 1 the great? 
Amid their flaring, idle toys, 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, 
Can they the peace and pleasure feel 
Of Bessy at her spinning wheel ? 



COUNTRY LASSIE. 
In simmer when the hay was mawn, 

And corn wav'd green in ilka field, 
While claver blooms white o'er the lea, 

And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel, 

Says, I'll he wed, come o't what will; 
Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild, 

" O' guid advisement comes nae ill. 



820 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

" It's ye hae wooers mony arte, 

And lassie, ye're but young, ye ken ; 
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale, 

A routhie but, a routhie ben : 
There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre : 
Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen, 

It's plenty beets the luver's fire." 

For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

I dinna care a single flie ; 
* He lo'es sae well his craps and kye, 

He has no luve to spare for me: 
But blithe's the blink o' Robie's e'e, 

And weel I wat he lo'es me dear: 
Ae blink o' him I wad na gie 

For Buskie-glen and a' his gear. 

" O thoughtless lassie, life's a faught ; 

The canniest gate, the strife is sair ; 
But ay fu 1 han't is fechtin best, 

A hungry care's an unco care : 
But some will spend, and some will spar* 

An' willfu 1 folk maun hae their will ; 
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, 

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yilL 

O, gear will buy me rigs o' land, 

And gear will buy me sheep and kye , 
But the tender heart o 1 leesome luve, 

The gowd and siller canna buy : 
We may be poor — Robie and I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on ; 
Content and luve brings peace and joy, 

What mair hae queens upon a throne 1 



BURNS' POEMS. 321 

FAIR ELIZA. 
A GAELIC AIR. 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 

Ae kind blink before we part, 
Rew on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thou break his faithfu' heart ? 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; 

If to love thy heart denies, 
For pity hide the cruel sentence, 

Under friendship's kind disguise. 
Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 

The offence is loving thee : 
Canst thou wreck his- peace forever, 

Wha for thine wad gladly die ? 
While the life beats in my bosom, 

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe : 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 
Not the bee upon the blossom, 

In the pride o 1 sinny noon ; 
Not the little sporting fairy, 

All beneath the simmer moon; 
Not the poet in the moment 

Fancy lightens on his e'e, 
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, 

That thy presence gies to me. 



THE POSIE. 

luve will venture in, where it daur na weel 

be seen, [has been ; 

O luve will venture in, where wisdom anco 

But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood 

sae green, 

And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. 



S l 22 BURNS POEMS. 

The primrose I will pu\ the firstling o' tne 

year, 
And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear, 
For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms 

without a peer ; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

rilpiTthe budding rose when Phoebus peeps in 
view, [mou ; 

For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie 
The hyacinth 's for constancy, wi 1 its unchang- 
ing blue, 
And a 1 to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The lily it is pure, arid the lily it is fair, 
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there; 
The daisy 's for simplicty and unaffected air, 
And a 1 to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller 

gray, [day, 

Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' 

But the songster's nest within the bush I win- 

na tak away ; *• 

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening star 

is near, [sae clear: 

And the diamond-draps o 1 dew shall be her een 

The violet 's for modesty, which weel she fa's 

to wear, 

And a 1 to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll tie the posie round wi 1 the silken oand ol 

luve, [a' above, 

And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear br 

That to my latest draught o' life, the band shall 

ne'er remove, 

And this will be a posie to my ain dear May. 



BURNS' POEMS. 333 

THE BANKS O' DOON. 
Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

And I sae weary, fu' o' care ! 
Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, 

That wantons thro' the flowering thorn ; 
Thou minds me o' departed joys, 

Departed never to return. 

Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o 1 its luve, 

And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I p'ud a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree : 
But my fause luver stole my rose, 

But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 



SONG. 
Tune—" Catharine Ogie." 

Ye flowery banks o 1 bonnie Doon, 

How can ye blume sae fair, 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

And I sae fu 1 o' care ! 

Thoull break my heart, thou bonnie bird 

That sings upon the bough ; 
Thou minds me o 1 the happy days 

When my fause luve was true. 

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird 

That sings beside thy mate ; 
For sae I sat, and sae I sang, 

And wist na o' my fate. 



324 BURNS' POEMS. 

Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 
To see the woodbine twine, 

And ilka bird sang o' its love, 
And sae did I o' mine. 

Wi 1 lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Frae affits thorny tree, 
And my fause luver staw the rose, 
But left the thorn wi' me. 



SIO A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD 

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 

The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie, 
Willie was a wabster guid, 

Cou'd stown a clue wi 1 ony bodie; 
He had a wife was dour and din, 
Tinkler Madgie was her mither ; 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 
1 wad na gie a button for her. 

She has an e'e, she has but ane, 
The cat has twa the very color ; 

Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, 

A clapper tongue wad deave a miller; 

A whisken beard about her mou, 
Her nose and chin they threaten ither ; 
Sic a wife, $c. 

She's bow-hough'd, she's hein-shinn'd, 
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter ; 

She 's twisted right, she 's twisted left, 
To balance fair in ilka quarter : 

She had a hump upon her breast, 
The twin o' that upon her shouther» 
Sic a wife, <J-c. 



BURNS' POEMS. 

Auld baudrans by the ingle sits, 

An' wi' her loof her face a-washin ; 
But Willie's wife is nae sae trig, 

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion ; 
Her walie nieves like middin-creels, 
Her face wad fyle the Logan- Water, 
•Sic a wife as Willie had, 
I wad na gie a button/or her. 



GLOOMY DECEMBER. 

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December ! 

Ance mair I hail thee wi 1 sorrow and care; 
Sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 

Parting wi 1 Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 
Fond lovers parting is sweet painful pleasure, 

Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour; 
But the dire feeling, farewell forever, 

Is anguish unmingled and agony pure. 

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, 

Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown, 
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, 

Since my last hope and last comfort is gone , 
Still as T hail thee, thou gloomy December, 

Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
For sad was the parting thou makes me re- 
member, 

Parting wi' Nancy, oh, ne'er to meet mair. 



WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE! 
Wilt thou be my dearie? 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart f 



326 BURNS' POEMS. 

O wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 
By the treasure of my soul, 

And that 's the love I bear thee ! 
I swear and vow, that only thou 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Only thou, I swear and vow, 
Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou Jo'es me ; 

Or if thou wilt na be my ain, 
Say na thou 1 lt refuse me : 

If it winna, canna be, 
Thou for thine may choose me ; 

Let me, lassie, quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 

Lassie, let me quickly die, 

Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE 

She's fair and fause, that causes my smart, 

I lo'ed her meikle and lang ; 
She's broken her vow, she's broken my hearx. 

And I may e'en gae hang. 
A coof cam in wi' rowth o' gear, 
And I hae tint my dearest dear, 
But woman is but warld's gear, 

Sae let the bonnie lass gang. 

Whae'er ye be that woman love, 

To this be never blind, 
Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove, 

A woman has't by kind ; 
O woman lovely, woman fair ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 327 

An angel's form's faun to thv share, 
l'v« ad been o'er meikle to gien thee mair, 
I mean an angel mind. 



AFTON WATER. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

braes, 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her 

dream. 

TLou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the 
glen, 

Ye wild whistling blackbirds, in yon thorny den, 

Thou green-crested lap- wing, thy screaming for- 
bear, 

[ charge you, disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills, 
Far mark' d wi' the courses of clear, winding rills; 
There daily I wander as noon rises high, 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys be- 
low, [blow ; 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses 
There, oft, as mild evening weeps over the lea, 
The sweet scented birk shades my Mary and me. 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how softly it glides, 
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 
As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy 
clear wave. 



328 BURNS' POEMS. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

braes, 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays j 
My Mary 's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not hei 

dream. 



BONNIE BELL. 

The smiling spring comes in rejoicing, 

And surly winter grimly flies : 
Now crystal clear are the falling waters, 

And bonnie blue are the sunny skies ; 
Fresh o 1 er the mountains breaks forth tb« 
morning, 

The ev'ning gilds the oceans swell ; 
All creatures joy in the sun's returning, 

And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell. 

The flowery spring leads sunny summer. 

And yellow autumn presses near, 
Then in his turn comes gloomy winter, 

Till smiling spring again appear. 
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, 

Old Time and nature their changes tell, 
But never ranging, still unchanging 

I adore my bonnie Bell. 



THE GALLANT WEAVER 

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, 
By mony a flow'r, and spreading tree ; 
There lives a iad, the lad for me_, 
He is a gallant weaver. 



BURNS' POEMS. 329 

Oh I had wooers aught or nine, 
They gjed me rings and ribbons tine ; 
And I was fear'd my heart would tine, 
And I gied it to the weaver. 

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band, 
To gie the lad that has the land; 
But to my heart I'll add my hand 
And gie it to the weaver. 

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers ; 
While bees rejoice in opening flowers; 
While corn grows green in simmer showers, 
I'll love my gallant weaver. 



I OUIS, WHAT REOK I BY THEE* 

Louis, what reck I by thee, 

Or Geordie on his ocean ? 
Dyvor, beggar louns to me, 

I reign in Jeanie's bosom. 

Let her crown my love her law, 
And in her breast enihrone me : 

Kings and nations, swith awai 
Keif randies, I disown ye ! 



FOK THE SAKE OF SOMEBQP* 

My heart is sair, I dare na tell, 
My heart is sair for somebody : 



BURNS T0EM9 

I could wake a winter night 
For the sake o' somebody, 

Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 

Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I could range the world around, 
For the sake of somebody ! 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

O, sweetly smile on somebody ! 
Frae ilka danger keep him free, 
And send me safe my somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ' 
I wad do — what wad I not ? 
For the sake of somebody • 



THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS 

The lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; 
For e'en and morn she cries, alas ! 

And ay the saut tear blins her e'e : 
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, 

A waefu 1 day it was to me ; 
For there I lost my father d( ar, 

My father dear and brethren tlnee. 

Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, 

Their graves are growing green to see , 
And by them lies the dearest lad 

That ever blest a woman's e'e ! 
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 

A bluidy man I trow thou be ; 
For mony a heart thuu hast made saic, 

That ne'er did wrung to thine or tliee. 



BURNS POEMS. 331 

A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE 

DEATH OF HER SON. 

Tune — " Finlayston House." 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 

And pierc'd my darling's heart: 
And with him all the joys are fled 

Life can to me impart. 
By cruel hands the sapling drops, 

In dust dishonor'd laid : 
So fell the pride of all my hopes, 

My age's future shade. 

The mother-linnet in the braKe, 

Bewails her ravish' d young ; 
So I, for my lost darling's sake, 

Lament the live-day long. 
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow. 

Now fond I bare my breast, 
O, do thou kindly lay me low 

With him I love, at rest ' 



O MAY, THY MORN 

O May, thy morn were ne'er sae sweet 
As the mirk night o' December; 

For sparkling was the rosy wine, 
And private was the chamber : 

And dear was she I dare na name, 
But I will ay remember. 
And dear, <$-c. 

And here's to them, that, like oursel, 

Can push about the jorum ; 
And here's to them that wish us weel, 

May a' that's guid watch o'er them ; 



332 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

And here's to them we dare na tell, 
The dearest o' the quorum. 
And here's to, fy-c. 



O, WAT YE WHA'S INYON TOWMt 

O, wat ye wha's in yon town, 

Ye see the e'nin sun upon ? 
The fairest dame 's in yon town, 

That e 1 enin sun is shining on. 

Now haply down yon gay green shaw, 
She wanders by yon spreading tree : 

How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw, 
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e ! 

How blest, ye birds that round her sing, 
And welcome in the blooming year! 

And doubly welcome be the spring, 
The season to my Lucy dear. 

The sun blinks blithe on yon town, 
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr ; 

But my delight in yon town, 
And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. 

Without my love, not a' the charms 
O' Paradise could yield me joy ; 

But gie me Lucy in my arms, 
And welcome Lapland's deary sky. 

My cave wad be a lever's bower, 
Tho' raging winter rent the air; 

And she a lovely little flower, 
That I wad tent and shelter there. 

O, sweet is she in yon town, 
Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon * 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 333 

A fairer than 's in yon town, 

His setting beam ne'er shone upon. 
If anger fate is sworn my foe, 

And suffering I am doom'd to bear ; 
I careless quit aught else below, 

But spare me, spare me Lucy dear. 
For while life's dearest blood is warm, 

Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart, 
And she — as fairest is her form ! 

She has the truest, kindest heart. 



A RED, RED ROSE 

O, my luve's like a red, red rose, 
That 's newly sprung in June : 

0, my luve 's like the melodie, 
That's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I : 
And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 

And the rocks melt wi' the sun: 
I will luve thee still, my dear, 

While the sands o' life shall run. 
And fare-thee-weel, my only luve! 

And fare-thee-weel a- while ■' 
And I will come again, my luve, 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 



A VISION. 

As I stood by yon roofless tower, 

Where the wa' -flower scents the dewy aij 



334 BURNS' POEMS. 

Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower. 
And tells the midnight moon her care. 

The winds were laid, the air was still, 
The stars they shot alang the sky ; 

The fox was howling on the hill, 
And the distant-echoing glens reply. 

The stream, adown its hazelly path, 
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, 

Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, 
Whase distant roaring swells and fa's. 

The cauld blue north was streaming fortl 
Her lights, wi' hissing, eerie din ; 

Athort the lift they start and shift, 
Like fortune's favors, tint as win. 

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyea, 
And by the moon-beam, shook, to see 

A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. 

Had T a statue been o' stane, 
His darin look had daunted me : 

And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, 
The sacred posy — Libertie ! 

And frae his harp sic strains did flow, 

Might rous'd the slumbering dead to be«r \ 

But on, it was a tale of wo, 
As ever met a Briton's ear ! 

He sang wi 1 joy his former day, 
He weeping wail'd his latter tines ; 

But what he said it was nae play, 
I winna venture in my rhymes. 



BURNS' POEMS. 335 

COPY 
OP A POETICAL ADDRESS 

TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, 

With the present of the Bard's Picture. 

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, 

Of Stuart, a name once respected, [heart, 

A name, which to love was the mark of a true 
But now 'tis despised and neglected. 

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in mi 
eye, 

Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; [sigb 

A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim & 

Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. 

My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne ; 

My fathers have fallen to right it ; 
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, 

That name should he scoffingly slight it. 

Still in prayers for K — G — I most heartly join, 
The Q — , and the rest of the gentry, 

Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine; 
Their title's avow'd by my country. 

Put why of this epocha make such a fuss, 
***** 



But loyalty, truce ! we'er on dangerous ground 
Who knows how the fashions may alter f 

The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, 
To-morrow may bring us a halter. 

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 
A trifle scarce worthy your care ; 

But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard, 
Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 



336 BURNS' POEMS. 

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on youi 
And ushers the long dreary night ; [eye 

But you, like 'he star that athwart gilds the sky, 
Your course to the latest is bright. 



CALEDONIA. 

Tune—" Caledonian Hunt's Delight." 

There was once a day, but old Time then was 
young, 
That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, 
From some of your northern deities sprung, 
(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's di- 
vine ?) 
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, 
To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would: 
Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, 
And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it 
good. 

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, 

The pride of her kindred, the heroine grew: 
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore, 
" Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encounter 
shall rue !" 
With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, 
To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling 
corn ? 
But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort, 
Her darling amusement, the hounds and the 
horn. 

Long quiet she reign'd ; till thitherward steers 
A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand : 

Repeated, successive, for many long years, 
They darken'd the air, and they plunder'd the 
land: 



BURNS' POEMS. 337 

Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry, 
They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside ; 

She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly, 
The daring invaders they fled or they died. 

The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north, 

The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the 
shore ; 
The wild Scandinavian boar issu'd forth 

To wanton in carnage and wallow in gore: 
O'er countries and kingdoms the fury prevail'd, 

No arts could appease them, no arms could 
repel ; 
But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd, 

As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell. 

The Chameleon-savage disturbs her repose, 

With tumult, disquiet, rebellion and strife: 
Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose, 

And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his 
life: 
The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 

Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's sil- 
ver flood ; 
But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 

He learned to fear in his own native wood. 

Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free, 

Her bright course of glory forever shall run, 
For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; 

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun; 
Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose, 

The upright is Chance, and old Time is the 
base ; 
But brave Caledonia's the hypotenuse ; 

Then ergo, she'll match them, and match them 

2fJ always. 

4{ * 22 



338 BURNS' POEMS. 

THE following Poem was written to a Gentle- 
man who had sent him a Newspaper, and off- 
ered to continue it free of Expense. 

Kind Sir, I've read your paper through, 

And faith to me, 'twas really new ! 

How guessed ye, Sir, what maist I wanted f 

This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted, 

To ken what French mischief was brewin ; 

Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin ; 

That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph, 

If Venus yet had got his nose off; 

Or how the collieshangie works 

At ween the Russians and the Turks ; 

Or if the Swede, before he halt, 

Would play anither Charles the twalt : 

If Denmark, any body spak o't ; 

Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't; 

How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin v 

How libbet Italy was singin ; 

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, 

Were sayin or takin aught amiss : 

Or how our merry lads at hame, 

In Britain's court kept up the game : 

How Royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him ! 

Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; 

If sleekit Chatham Will was liven, 

Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; 

How daddie Burke the plea was cookin, 

If Warren Hasting's neck was yeukin; 

How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd, 

Or if bare a — s yet were tax'd ; 

The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, 

Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls* 

If (hat daft buckie, Geordie W***s, 

Was threshin still at hizzies' tails, 

Or if he was grown oughtlins douser, 

And no a periect kintra cooser, 



BURNS' POEMS. 339 

A 1 this and mair I never heard of; 
And but for. you I might despaired of. 
So gratefu', back your news I send you, 
And pray, a 1 guid things may attend you. 
Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790. 



POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY 

Hail, Poesie ! thou Nymph reserv'd! 

In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd 

Frae common sense, or sunk ennerv'd 

'Mang heaps o' claveis; 
And och! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd, 

'Mid a' thy favors ! 

Say, lassie, why thy train amang, 
While loud the trump's heroic clang, 
And sock and buskin skelp alang 

To death or marriage ; 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang 

But wi' miscarriage ? 

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives. 
Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives; 
Wee Pope, the knurlin, till him rives 

Horatian fame ; 
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 

Even Sappho's flame. 

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches? 
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches : 
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches 

0' heathen tatters: 
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, 

That ape their betters. 



340 BURNS' POEMS. 

In this braw age o 1 wit and lear, 
Will nane the shepherd's whistle mair 
Blaw sweetly, in its native air 

Arid rural grace ; 
And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian, share 

A rival place ? 

Yes ! there is ane — a Scottish callan ! 
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! 
Thou needna jouk behint the hallan, 

A chiel sae clever ; 
The teeth o' Time may gnaw Tamtallan, 

But thou 's forever. 

Thou paints auld Nature to the nines, 

In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; 

Nae gowden stream thro' myrtle twines, 

Where Philomel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 

Her griefs will tell! 

In gowany glens thy burnie strays, 
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes ; 
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, 

Wi' hawthorns gray, 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 

At close o' day. 

Thy rural loves are nature's sel ; 

Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; 

Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell 

O 1 witchin love, 
That charm that can the strongest quell ; 

The sternest move. 



BURNS' POEMS. 341 

ON THE 
BATTLE OF SH E R I F F-M U I R, 
Between the Duke of Argyle and the EarJ of Mar 

" O cam ye here the fight to shun, 

Or herd the sheep wi' me, man ? 
Or were ye at the sherra-muir, 

And did the battle see, man ?" 
I saw the battle, sair and tough, 
And reekin-red ran mony a sheugh, 
My heart, for fear, gae sough for sough, 
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds, 
O 1 clans frae woods, in tartan duds, 

Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. 

The red-coat lads wi' black cockades, 
To meet them were na slaw, man ; 

They rush'd and push'd, and blude outgush'd, 
And mony a bouk did fa', man : 

The great Argyle led on his files, 

I wat they glanced twenty miles : 

They hack'd and hash'd, while broad-swords 
clash'd, 

And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smasb'd, 
Till fey-men died awa, man. 

But had you seen the philibegs, 

And skyrin tartan trews, man, 
When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs, 

And covenant true blues ; man ; 
In lines extended lang and large, 
When bayonets oppos'd the targe, 
And thousands hasten'd to the charge, 
Wi' Highland wrath, they frae the sheath 
Drew blades o 1 death, till, out o' breath, 

They fled like frighted doos, man. 

" how deil, Tarn, can that be true f 
The chase gaed frae the north, man ; 



319 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

I saw myself, lliey did pursue 

The horsemen back to Forth, man; 
And ai Dumblane, in my ain sight, 
They look ihe brig wi 1 a" their might, 
And straughl to Stirling wing'd their flight: 
Hut, cursed lot ! the gates were shut, 
And mony a huntit, poor red-coat, 
For fear amaist did swarf, man." 

My sister Kate earn up the gate 

Wi' crowdie unto me. man ; 
She swore she saw some rebels run 

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man; 
Their left -hand general had nae skill, 
The Angus lads had nae good will 
That day their neehors' blood to spill; 
For tear by toes, that they should lose 
Their cogs o' brose ; all crying woes, 

And so it goes you see, man. 
They've lost some gallant gentlemen, 

Amang the Highland elans, man; 
I fear my lord Panmure is slain, 

Or (alien in whiggish hands, man: 
Now wad ye sing this double fight, 
Some fell for wrang, and some for right; 
But mony bid the world guid-night ; 
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, 
By red claymores, and muskets 1 knell, 
VV i' dving yell, the lories fell, 

And whigs to '»oll did flee, man. 



SKETOH.-NE W-YEAR'S DAY 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain, 
To run the twelvemonth's length again: 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 345 

I see the old, bald-pated fellow. 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 
Adjust the unimpair'd machine, 
To wheel the equal, dull routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir, 
In vain assail him with their prayer, 
Deaf as my friend, he sees them press, 
Nor makes the hour one moment less. 
Will you (the Major's with the hounds , 
The happy tenants share his rounds ; 
Coda's fair Rachel's care to-day. 
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) 
From housewife cares a minute borrow — 
That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow — 
And join with me a-moralizing, 
This day's propitious to be wise in. 
First, what did yesternight deliver ? 
'* Another year is gone forever." 
And what is this day's strong suggestion f 
u The passing moment 's all we rest on !' 
Rest on — for what ? what do we here t 
Or why regard the passing year ? 
Will Time, amus'd with proverb 'd lore, 
Add to our date one minute more ? 
A few days may — a few years must- 
Repose us in the silent dust. 
Then is it wise to damp our bliss ? 
Yes — all such reasonings are amiss! 
The voice of nature loudly cries, 
And mony a message from the skies, 
That something in us never dies : 
That on this frail, uncertain state, 
Hang matters of eternal weight ; 
That future life in worlds unknown 
Must take its hue from this alone ; 
Whether as heavenly glory bright, 
Or dark as misery's woful night. — 



144 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

Since then, my honor'd, first of friends, 
On this poor being all depends ; 
Let. us th important now employ, 
And live as those that never die. 
Tho' you, with day and honors crown'd, 
Witness that filial circle round, 
(A sight life's sorrows to repulse, 
A sight pale envy to convulse,) 
Others now claim your chief regard: 
Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



EXTEMPORE, on the late Mr. William Smel 
lie. Author of the Philosophy of Natural Hit' 
tory, and Member of the Antiquarian and Roy- 
al Societies of Edinburgh. 

To Crochallan came, 
The old cock'd hat, the gray surtout, the same; 
His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
'Twas four long nights and days to shaving- 
night, 
His uncombed grizzly locks wild staring, thatch 'd 
A head for thought profound and clear, uri' 

match'd ; 
Yet tho 1 his caustic wit was bitting, rude. 
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. 



POETICALINSCRIPTWN for an Altar to 
Independence, at Kerroughtry, the Seat of Mr. 
Heron ; written in summer, 1795. 

Thou of an independent mind, 

With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd: 



BURNS' POEMS. 345 

Prepaid Power's proudest frown to brave, 
Who wilt not be, nor have a slave ; 
Virtue alone who dost revere, 
Thy own reproach alone dost fear, 
Approach this shrine, and woship here. 



SONNET, 

ON THE 
DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, Esq. 

OF GLEN RIDDEL, APRIL, 1794. 

No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more, 

Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul; 

Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant 
. f tole > [est roar. 

More welcome were to me grim Winter's wild- 
How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your 
dyes? 

Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend ; 

How can I to the tuneful strain attend f 
That strain flows round th 1 untimely tomb 
where Riddel lies. 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of wo, 
And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier : 
The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer, 

Is in his " narrow house" forever darkly low. 

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet ; 
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. 
2H 



34b BURNS' POEMS. 

MONODY 
ON A 
LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. 

How cold is that bosom which folly once fir 1 d ! 
How pale is that cheek where the rouge late- 
ly glisten'd ! 
How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tir'd! 
How dull is that ear which to flattery so lis* 
.ten'd! 

If s©rrow and anguish their exit await ; 

From friendship and dearest affection remov'd; 
How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate, 

Thou diedst unwept as thou livedst unlov'd. 

Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you ; 

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear ; 
But come, all ye offspring of folly so true, 

And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. 

We'll search thro' the garden for each silly 
flower, 
We'll roam thro' the forest for each idle weed ; 
But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, 
For none e'er approach' d her but ru'd the rash 
deed. 

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the 
Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; [lay ; 

There keen Indignation shall dart on her prey, 
Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from 
his ire. 

THE EPITAPH. 

Hebe lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, 
What once was a butterfly, gay in life's beam 

Want only of wisdom, denied her respect, 
Want only of goodness, denied her esteem. 



BURNS' POEMS. 34? 

ANSWER to a Mandate sent by the Surveyr 
of the Windows, Carriages, fyc. to each Far~ 
mer, ordering him to se?id a signed List of kt» 
Horses, Servants, Wheel- Carriages, <$-f.. aw 
whether he was a married Man or a BackeUtr 
and what Children they had. 

Sir, as your mandate did request, 
I send you here a faithfu' list, 
My horses, servants, carts, and graith, 
To which I'm free to tak my aith. 

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 
I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle, 
As ever drew before a pettle. 
My hand afore, a guid auld has-been, 
And wight and willfu' a' bis days seen , 
My hand a kin, a guid brown filly, 
Wha aft hae borne me safe frae Killie, 
And your old borough mony a time, 
In days when riding was nae crime : 
My fur a hin, a guid gray beast, 
As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd : 
The fourth, a Highland Donald hasty, 
A d-mn'd red-wud, Kilburuie blastie, 
For-by a cowt, of cowts the wale, 
As ever ran before a tail ; 
An' he be spar'd to be a beast, 
He'll draw me fifteen pund at least. 

Wheel-carriages I hae but few, 
Three carts, and twa are feckly new ; 
An auld wheel-barrow, mair for token, 
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken; 
I made a poker o' the spindle, 
And my auld mither brunt the trundle. 
For men, I've three mischievous boys, 
Run-deils for rantin and for noise ; 



348 BURNS' POEMS. 

A gadsman ane, a thrasher t'other, 
Wee Davoc hands the nowte in fother. 
1 rule them, as I ought, discreetly, 
Arid often labor them completely, 
And ay on Sundays duly nightly, 
I on the questions tairge them tightly, 
Till faith wee Davoc's grown sae gleg, 
(Tho' scarcely langer than my leg,) 
He'll screed you oft effectual calling, 
As fast as ony in the dwalling. 

I've nane in female servant station, 
Lord keep me ay frae a' temptation ! 
1 hae nae wife, and that my bliss is, 
A nd ye hae laid nae tax on misses ; 
For weans I'm mair than well contented, 
Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted ; 
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, 
She stares the daddie in her face, 
Enough of aught ye like but grace. 
But her, my bonnie, sweet, wee lady, 
I've said enough for her already, 
And if ye tax her or her mither, 
By the L — d, ye'se get them a' thegither ! 

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 
Nae kind of license out I'm taking, 
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paddle, 
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 
I've sturdy stumps, the Lord be thanked! 
And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it. 

This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it, 
The day and date is under noted ; 
Then know, all ye whom it concerns, 
Subscripsi huic, 

Robert Burjts. 
Mossgiel, 22dFeb. 1786. 



BURNS' POEMS. 349 

SONG. 

Nae gentle dames, the-' e'er sae fair, 
Shall ever be my muse's care; 
Their titles a' are empty show ; 
Gie me my Highland lassie. O. 

Within the glen sae bushy, 0, 
Aboon the plain sae rushy, O, 
I set me down wV right good will ; 
To sing my Highland lassie, 0. 

Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine, 
Yon palace and yon gardens fine ! 
The world then the love should know 
I bear my Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, fyc. 

But fickle fortune frowns on me, 
And I maun cross the raging sea ; 
But while my crimson currents flow 
I love my Highland lassie, 0. 
Within the glen, $c. 

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, 
I know her heart will never change, 
For her bosom burns with honor's glow. 
My faithful Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, cj-c. 

For her I'll dare the billow's roar, 
For her I'll trace a distant shore, 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw 
Around my Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, §-c. 

She has my heart, she has my nand, 
By sacred truth and honor's band ! 



350 BURNS' POEMS. 

Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, 
I'm thine, my Highland lassie, O. 

Farewell, the glen sae bushy, ! 
Farewell, the plain sae rushy, ! 
To other lands I now must go, 
To sing my Highland lassie, ! 



I IMPROMPTU, 
ON MRS. 

NOVEMBER 4, 1793. 

Old Winter, with his frosty beard, 
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd , 
What have I done, of all the year, 
To bear this hated doom severe ? 
My cheerless suns no pleasure know ; 
Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow ; 
My dismal months no joys are crowning, 
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning. 

Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil, 

To counterbalance all this evil ; 

Give me, and I've no more to say, 

Give me Maria's natal day ! 

That brilliant gift will so enrich me, 

Spring, summer, autumn, cannot match me, 

'Tis done ! says Jove ; so ends my story, 

And Winter once rejoiced in glory. 



ADDRESS TO A LADY. 

Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast, 
On yonder lea, on yonder lea ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 351 

My plaidie to the angry airt, 
I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee ; 

Or did misfortune's bitter storms 
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, 

1 hv bield should be my bosom, 
To share it a', to share it a'. 

Or were I in the wildest waste, 
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, 

I he desert were a paradise, 
If thou wert there, if thou were there. 

Or were I monarch o' the globe, 

a,u W r * h . ee t0 rei £ n > wi ' thee t0 reign, 
Ibe brightest jewel in my crown, 
Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 



TO A YOUNG LADY, 
MISS JESSY , DUMFRIES ; 

With Books which the Bard presented her. 
Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, 
And with them take the poet's prayer , 

1 {?*£ fat e may in her fairest page, 
With every kindliest, best presage 
Of future bhss, enroll thy name, 
With native worth and spotless fame, 
And wakeful caution still aware 

°H l 1 ! -13 " 1 chief ' man ' s felon sna re ; 
All blameless joys on earth we find, 
And all the treasures of the mind— 
1 hese be thy guardian and reward : 
So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard. 



352 BURNS' POEMS. 

SONNET, xoritten on the 25th of January, 1793, 
the. Birth-day of the Author, on hearing a 
Thrush sing in a morning Walk. 

Sinq on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough: 
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain : 
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, 

At thy blithe carol clears his furrow' d brow. 

So in lono Poverty's dominion drear, 
Sits meek Content, with light unanxione 
heart, [part, 

Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them 

Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. 

I thank thee, Author of this opening day ! 

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient 
skies ! 

Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, 
What wealth could never give nor take away ! 

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, 
The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that mite 
with thee I'll share. 



EXTEMPORE, to Mr. S**E, on refusing to 
Dine with him, after having been promised the 
first of Company , and the first of Cookery, Mtk 
December, 1795. 

No more of your guests, be they titled or not, 
And cook ry the first in the nation ; 

Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, 
Is proAf to all other temptation. 



BURNS' POEMS. 353 

T# Mr. S**E, with a Present of a Dozen of 
Porter. 

O, had the malt thy strength of mind, 

Or hops th6 flavor of thy wit, 
'Twere drink for first of human kind, 
A gift that e'en for S**e were fit. 
Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries. 



THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS 

Tukk — u Push about the Joruml* 

April, 1795. 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat f 

Then let the loons beware, Sir, 
There's wooden walls upon our seas, 

And volunteers on shore, Sir. 
The Nith shall run to Corsincon, 

And Criffel sink in Solway, 
Ere we permit a foreign foe 

On British ground to rally ! 

Fall de rail, <£c. 

O let us not, like snarling tykes, 

In wrangling be divided ; 
Till slap come in an unco loon, 

And wi' a rung decide it. 
Be Britain still to Britain true, 

Amang oursels united ; 
For never but by British hands 

Maun British wrangs be righted. 
Fall de rail, <£c 

The kettle o' the kirk and state, 
Perhaps a claut may fail in't ; 
23 



354 BURNS' POEMS. 

But deil a foreign tinkler loun 

Shall ever ca 1 a nail in't. 
Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought, 

And wha wad dare to spoil it ; 
By heaven, the sacrilegious dog 

Shall fuel be to boil it ! 

Fall de rail, (J-c. 

The wretch that would a tyrant own. 

And the wretch his true-born brother, 
Who would set the mob aboon the throne, 

May they be damrTd together ! 
Who will not sing, " God save the King, 1 

Shall hang as high's the sieeple ; 
But while we sing, " God save the King,' 

We'll ne'er forget the People. 

Fall de rail, $-c. 



POEM, 

ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OF 
EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796. 

Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, 
Wha wanting thee, might beg or steal ; 
Alake, alake, the meikle deil 

Wi' a' his witches, 
Are at it, skelpin, jig and reel, 

In my poor pouches. 

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it, 
That one pound one, I sairly want it : 
If wi' the hizzie down you sont it, 

It would be kind ; 
And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted, 

I'd bear 't in mind. 



BURNS' POEMS. 355 

So may the auld year gang out moaning, 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin 

To thee and thine ; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The hale design. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

YeVe heard this while how I've been licket, 
And by fell death was nearly nicket : 
Grim loun ! he gat me by the fecket, 

And sair me sheuk ; 
But by guid luck I lap a wicket, 

And turn'd a neuk. 

But by that health I've got a share o't, 
And by that life, I'm promis'd mair o't, 
My hale and weel I'll take a care' o't 

A tentier way ; 
Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't, 

For ance and aye. 



Sent to a Gentleman whom he hod offended. 

The friend whom wild from w isdom's way. 
The fumes of wine infuriate send ; 

(Not moony madness more astray) 
Who but deplores that hapless friend I 

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part. 
Ah why should I such scenes outlive ! 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 
'Tis thine to pity and forgive. 



356 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

POEM ON LIFE. 

ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYBTER, 

DUMFRIES, 1796. 

My honor'd colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in the Poet's weal ; 
Ah ! now sma' heart hae I to speel 

The steep Parnassus. 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill, 

And potion glasses. 

O what a canty warld were it, 

Would pain and care, and sickness spare it , 

And fortune favor worth and merit, 

As they deserve : 
(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret ; 

Syne wha wad starve ?) 

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, 
And in paste gems and frippery deck her ; 
Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker 

I've found her still, 
Ay wavering like the willow wicker 

'Tween good and ill. 

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, 
Watches, like baudrans by a rattan, 
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on 

Wi 1 felon ire ; 
Syne whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on, 

He's ofTlike fire. 

Ah Nick ! ah Nick ! it is na fair, 
First showing us the tempting ware, 
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare, 

To put us daft ; 
Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare 

O' heli's damn'd waft. 



-BURNS' POEMS. 357 

Poor man, the flie aft bizzes by, 
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, 
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy, 

And hellish pleasure . 
Already in thy fancy's eye, 

Thy sicker treasure. 

Soon, heels o'er gowdie ! in he gangs, 
And like a sheep-head on a tangs, 
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murdering wrestle, 
As dangling in the wind, he hangs 

A gibbet's tassel. 

But lest you think I am uncivil. 

To plague you with this draunting drivel, 

Abjuring a intentions evil, 

I quat my pen : 
The Lord preserve us frae the devil ! 

Amen ! amen ! 



ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE 

My curse upon thy venom' d stang, 
That shoots my tortur'd gums along ; 
And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang, 

Wi 1 gnawing vengeance ; 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, 

Like racking engines ! 

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
Rheumatics gnaw, or colic squeezes ; 
Our neighbor's sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan : 
But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases, 

Ay mocks our groan ! 



.58 BURNS' POEMS. 

Adown my beard the slavers trickle ! 
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle, 
As round the fire the giglets keckle, 

To see me loup ; 
While raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 

0' a' the nunTrous human dools, 
111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, 
Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools, 

Sad sight to see ! 
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, 

Thou bear'st the gree. 

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, 
Whence a 1 the tones o 1 mis'ry yell, 
And ranked plagues their numbers tell, 

In dreadfu' raw, 
Thou, Tooth-ache, surely bear'st the bell 

Amang them a' ! 

O thou grim, mischief-making chiel, 
That gars the notes of discord squeel, 
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe- thick ;•— 
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal 

A towmond's Tooth-ache ! 



SONG. 
Tvnb— " Morag." 

O wha is she that lo'es me 
And has my heart a-keeping f 

O sweet is she that lo'es me, 
As dews o' simmer weeping, 
In tears the rose-buds steeping. 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 359 

CHORUS. 
that's the lassie o 1 myheart, 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
thafs the queen o 1 womankind, 

And ne'er a ane to peer her. 

If thou shalt meet a lassie, 

In grace and beauty charming, 

That e'en thy chosen lassie, 
Ere while thy breast sae warming, 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming. 
that's, (J-c. 

If thou hadst heard her talking, 

And thy attentions plighted, 
That ilka body talking, 

But her by thee is slighted, 

And thou art all delighted. 
thafs, 6/C. 

If thou hast met this fair one ; 
When frae her thou hast parted, 

If every other fair one, 

But her thou hast deserted, 
And thou art broken-hearted, — 
that's, 6/C. 



SONG. 

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss, 
O'er the mountains he is gane ; 

And with him is a' my bliss, 
Nought but griefs with me remain. 

Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, 
Plashy sleets and beating rain; 

Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, 
Drifting o'er the frozen plain, 



360 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

When the shades of evening creep 

O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e, 
Sound and safely may he sleep, 

Sweetly blithe his waukening be ! 
He will think on her he loves, 

Fondly hell repeat her name ; 
For where'er he distant roves, 

Jocky's heart is still at hame. 



SONG 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, 
The frost of hermit age might warm ; 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, 
Might charm the first of human kind. 
I love my Peggy's angel air, 
Her face so truly, heavenly fair, 
Her native grace so void of art ; 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 
The lily's hue, the rose's dye, 
The kindling lustre of an eye ; 
Who but owns their magic sway, 
Who but knows they all decay ! 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear, 
The generous purpose, nobly dear, 
The gentle look, that rage disarms, 
These are all immortal charms. 



WRITTEN in a Wrapper enclosing a Letter 
to Capt. Grose, to be left with Mr. Cardonnel, 
Antiquarian. 

Tune— " Sir John Malcolm." 

Ken ye aught o 1 Captain Grose ? 
I fro, $■ ago, 



BURNS' POEMS. 361 

If he's amang his friends or foes ? 
Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he South, or is he North ? 

lgo, ($• ago, 
Or drowned in the river Forth ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he slain by Highland bodies f 

I go, d/ ago, 
And eaten like a weather-haggis f 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he to Abram's bosom gane ? 

I go, $ ago, 
Or haudin Sarah by the wame ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Where'er he be, the Lord be near him ! 

lgo, fyago, 
As for the deil, he daur na steer him. 

Iram, coram, dago. 

But please transmit th' enclosed letter, 

lgo, $ ago, 
Which will oblige your numble debtor. 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye hae auld stanes in store, 

lgo, (J- ago, 
The very stanes that Adam bore. 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye get in glad possession, 

lgo, d/ ago, 
The coins o' Satan's coronation ! 
T Iram, coram, dago. 



362 BURNS' POEMS. 

TO ROBERT GRAHAM Esq , 

OF FINTRA, 

ON RECEIVING A FAVOR. 

I call no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns ; 
Friend of my lite ! my ardent spirit burns, 
And all the tribute of my heart returns, 
For boons accorded, goodness ever new, 
The gift still dealer, as the giver you. 

Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light ! 
And all ye many sparkling stars of night ; 
If aught that giver from my mind efface ; 
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; 
Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres, 
Only to number out a villain's years ! 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 

An honest man here lies at rest, 
As e'er God with his image blest; 
The friend of man, the friend of truth : 
The friend of age, and guide of youth : 
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd, 
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd : 
If there's another world, he lives in bliss ; 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 



A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 

O thou, who kindly dost provide 

For every creature's want ! 
We bless thee, God of Nature wide, 

For all thy goodness lent : 



BURNS' POEMS. 363 

And, if.it please thee. Heavenly Guide, 

May never worse be sent ; 
But whether granted or denied, 

Lord, bless us with content ! 
Amen .' 



>'o my dear and much honored Friend, Mr*. 
Dunlop, of Dunlop. 
ON SENSIBILITY. 
Sensibility, how charming, 

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell , 
But distress with horrors arming. 

Thou hast also known too well 1 
Fairest flower, behold the lily, 

Blooming in the sunny ray : 
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley 

See it prostrate on the clay. 
Hear the woodlark charms the forest, 

Telling o 1 er his little joys ; 
Hapless bird ! a prey the surest, 

To each pirate of the skies. 
Dearly bought the hidden treasure, 

Finer feelings can bestow ; 
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure, 

Thrill the deepest notes of wo. 



A VERSE composed and repeated by Burns it 
the Master of the House, on taking leave at a 
Place i?i the Highlands, where he had been hat 
pitably entertained. 

When death's dark stream I ferry o'er, 
A time that surely shall come ; 

In Heaven itself, I'll ask no more, 
Than just a Highland welcome. 



364 burns' poems. 

FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE 

Scenes of wo, and scenes of pleasure, 
Scenes that former thoughts renew, 

Scenes of wo, and scenes of pleasure, 
Now a sad and last adieu ! 

Bonny Doon, sae sweet at gloaming, 
Fare-thee-weel before I gang ! 

Bonny Doon, whare early roaming, 
First I weav'd the rustic sang ! 

Bowers, adieu, whare Love, decoying, 
First inthraird this heart o' mine, 

There.the safest sweets enjoying, — 
Sweets that Mem'ry ne'er shall tyne ! 

Friends, so near my bosom ever, 
Ye hae render 'd moments dear ; 

But, alas ! when forc'd to sever, 
Then the stroke, O, how severe ! 

Friends ! that parting tear reserve it, 
Tho' 'tis doubly dear to me ! 

Could I think I did deserve it, 
How much happier would I be ! 

Scenes of wo, and scenes of pleasure, 
Scenes that former thoughts renew, 

Scenes of wo, and scenes of pleasure, 
Now a sad and last adieu ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY, 

SELECTED FROM THE 

RELIQUES OF ROBT. BURNS, 

FIRST PUBLISHED BY R. H. CROMEK. 



VERSES WRITTEN AT SELKIRK 
I. 
Auld chuckie Reekie's* sair distrest, 
Down droops her ance weel burnisht crest, 
Nae joy her bonnie busket nest 
Can yield ava, 
Her darling bird that she lo 1 es best, 
Willie's awa ! 

II. 
O Willie was a witty wight, 
And had o' things an unco slight ! 
Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight, 

And trig and braw : 
But now they'll busk her like a fright, 

Willie's awa ! 

III. 

The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd, 
The bauldest o 1 them a' he cow'd ; 
They durst nae mair than he allow'd, 

That was a law : 
We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd, 

Willie's awa ! 

• Edinburgh. 
do5 



3G6 BURNS' POEMS. 

IV. 
Nomi gawkies, tawpies, gowks and fools, 
Frae colleges and boarding schools, 
May sprout like simmer pudduck-stools, 

In glen or shaw ; 
He wha could brush them down to mools, 

Willie's awa ! 
V. 
The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumer* 
May mourn their loss wi' doolfu 1 clamor ; 
He was a dictionar and grammar 

Amang them a' ; 
I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer, 

Willie's awa ! 

VI. 
Nae mair we see his levee door 
Philosophers and Poets, pour,t 
And toothy critics by the score, 

In bloody raw ! 
The adjutant o' a' the core, 

Willie's awa ! 

VII 
Now worthy G*****y's latin face, 
T***Vs and G*********'s modest grace , 
M'K****e, S****t, such a brace 

As Rome ne'er saw ; 
They a' maun meet some ither place, 

Willie's awa ! 

VIII. 
Poor Burns — e'en Scotch drink canna quicken, 
He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken, 

•The Chamber of Commerce of Edinburgh, of whick 
Mr. C. was Secretary. 

t Many literary gentlemen were accustom'd to «ne«! 
at Mr. C— 's house at breakfast. 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 367 

Scaled frae its minnie and the cleckin 
By hoodie-craw; 

Griefs gien his heart an unco kickin, 
Willie's awa ! 

IX. 
Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin 1 hlellum, 
And Calvin's fock are fit to fell him ; 
And self-conceited critic skellum 

His quill may draw ; 
He wha could brawlie ward their bellum, 

Willie's awa! 

X. 

Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, 
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
And Ettrick banks now roaring red, 

While tempests blaw ; 
But every joy and pleasure's fled, 

Willie's awa ! 

XI. 
May I be slander's common speech ; 
A text for infamy to preach ; 
And lastly, streekit out to bleach 

In winter snaw ; 
When I forget thee ! Willie Creech, 

Tho' far awa ! 

XII. 
May never wicked fortune touzle him ! 
May never wicked men bamboozle him! 
Until a pow as auld's Methusalem ! 

He canty claw ! 
Then to the blessed, New Jerusalem, 

Fleet wing awa ! 



363 BURNS' POEMS. 

LIBERTY. 
A FRAGMENT. 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, 
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song, 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes ; 
Where is that soul of freedom fled ? 
Immingled with the mighty dead ! 

Beneath that hallowed turf where Wallace lies' 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death ! 

Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep ; 

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep, 
Nor give the coward secret breath — 

Is this the power in freedom's war 

That wont to bid the battle rage ? 
Behold that eye, which shot immortal hate, 

Crushing the despot's proudest bearing, 
That arm which, nerved with thundering fate, 

Braved usurpation's boldest daring ! 
One quench'd in darkness like the sinking star, 
And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless 
age. 



ELEGY 

ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX.* 

Now Robin lies in his last lair, 

He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, 

Cauld poverty, wi' hungery stare, 

Nae mair shall fear him , 
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care 

E'er mair come near him. 

To tell the truth, they seldom fasht him ; 
Except the moment that they crusht him ; 

* Ruisseattx — a play on his own name. 



BURNS' POEMS. 369 

For sune as chance or fate had husht 'em ; 

Tho 1 e'er sae short, 
Then wi' a rhyme or song he lasht 'em, 

And thought it sport.— 

Tho' he was bred to kintra wark, 

And counted was baith wight and stark, 

Yet that was never Robin's mark 

To mak a man ; 
But tell him, he was learn'd and dark, 

Ye roos'd him then * 



OOMIN THRO' THE RYE 

Comin thro' the rye, poor body, 

Comin thro' the rye, 
She draigl't a' her petticoatie 
Comin thro' the rye. 
Oh Jenny's a' weet, poor body, 

Jenny's seldom dry : 
She draigl't a 1 her petticoatie 
Comin thro' the rye. 

Gin a body meet a body 

Comin thro' the rye, 
Gin a body kiss a body, 

Need a body cry. 

Oh Jenny's a' weet, &c. 

Gin a body meet a body 

Comin thro' the glen; 
Gin a body ki.ss a body, 

Need the warld ken, 

9Tr Oh Jenny's a' weet, &c. 

^iv 24 



870 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

THE LOYAL NATIVES' VERSES* 

Ye sons of sedition, give ear to my song, 
Let Syme, Burns, and Maxwell, pervade every 
throng, [quack, 

With Craken, the attorney, and Mundell the 
Send Willie the monger to hell with a smack. 



BURN S— Extempore. 

Ye true " Loyal Natives," attend to my song, 
In uproar and riot rejoice the night long ; 
From envy and hatred your corps is exempt ; 
But where is your shield from the dart of con- 
tempt 1 



TO J. LAPRAIK. 

Sept. \3th, 1785. 

Guid speed an' furder to you, Johnie, 

Guid health, hale han's, and weather bonnie ; 

Now when ye're nickan down fu' cannie 

The staff o' bread, 
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' brandy 

To clear your head. 

* At this period of our Poet's life, when political ani- 
mosity was made the ground of private quarrel, the 
above foolish verses were sent as an attack on Burns 
and his friends for their political opinions. They were 
written by some member of a club styling themselves 
the Loyal Natives of Dumfries, or rather by the united 

Senius of that club, which was more distinguished for 
runken loyalty, than either for respectability or poeti- 
cal talent. The verses were handed over the table to 
Bums at a convivial meeting, and he instantly endor»- 
ed the subjoined reply. — Reliques t p. 168. 



BURNS' POEMS. 371 

May Boreas never thresh your rigs, 
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, 
Sendin the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs 

Like drivin wrack ; 
But may the tapmast grain that wags 

Come to the sack. 

I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin at it, 

But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it, 

Sae my old stumpie pen I gat it 

Wi' muckle wark, 
An 1 took my jocteleg an' whatt it, 

Like ony dark. 

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, 
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, 
Abusin me for harsh ill nature 

On holy men, 
While deil a hair yoursel ye're better, 

But mair profane. 

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, 
Let's sing about our noble sels ; 
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills, 

To help, or roose us, 
But browster wives and whiskie stills, 

They are the muses. 

Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it, 

An 1 if ye mak objections at it, 

Then nan' in nieve some day we'll knot it. 

An' witness take, 
An' when wi' usquebae we've wat it, 

It winna break. 

But if the beast and branks be spar'd, 
Till kye be gaun without the herd, 
An' a' the vittel in the yard, 

An' theckit right, 



372 BURNS' POEMS. 

I mean your ingle-side to guard 

Ae winter night. 

Then muse-inspiring aqua-vita? 

Shall make us baith sae blithe an' witty, 

Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty, 

An' be as canty 
As ye were nine years less than thretty, 

Sweet ane an' twenty. 

But stooks are cowpet wi 1 the blast, 
An' now the sun keeks in the west, 
Then I maun rin amang the rest 

An 1 quat my chanter, 
Sae I subscribe mysel in haste. 

Yours, Rab the Ranter. 



TO THE REV JOHN M'MATH, 

ENCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER 
WHICH HE HAD REQUESTED. 

Sept. \7th, 1785. 

While at the stook the shearers cow'r, 
To shun the bitter blaudin show'r, 
Or in gulravage rinnin scowt 

To pass the time, 
To you I dedicate the hour 

In idle rhyme. 

My musie, tir'd wi mony a sonnet 

On gown, an' ban 1 , an 1 douse black bonnet, 

Is grown right eerie now she's done it, 

I est they should blame her 
An' rouse their holy thunder on it, 

And anathem her. 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 373 

I own 'twas rash, an 1 rather hardy, 
That I, a simple, kintra bardie, 
Should meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, 

Wha, if they ken me, 
Can easy, wi' a single wordie, 

Lowse h-11 upon me. 

But I gae mad at their grimaces, 
Their sighan, cantan, grace-prood faces, 
Their three mile prayers, an' hauf-mile graces, 

Their raxan conscience, 
Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces 

Waur nor their nonsense. 

There's Gaun* miska't waur than a beast, 
Wha has mair honor in his breast, 
Than mony scores a3 guid's the priest 

Wha sae abus't him ; 
An' may a bard no crack his jest [him t 

What way they 've use't 

See him,t the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word an' deed, 
An' shall his fame an' honor bleed 

By worthless skellums, 
An' not a muse erect her head 

To cowe the blellums f 

O Pope, had I thy satire's darts, 
To give the rascals their deserts, 
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts, 

An' tell aloud 
Their jugglin hocus-pocus arts 

To cheat the crowd. 

God knows, I'm no the thing I should be, 
Nor am I even the thing I could be, 

* Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 

tThe poet has introduced the two first lines of the 
stanza into the dedication of his works to Mr. Hamilton 



374 BURNS' POEMS. 

But twenty times, I rather would be 
An' Atheist clean, 

Than under gospel colors hid be, 

Just for a screen. 

An honest man may like a glass, 
An honest man may like a lass, 
But mean revenge, an' malice fause, 

He'll still disdain, 
An' then cry zeal for gospel laws. 

Like some we ken 

They take religion in their mouth ; 
They talk o 1 mercy, grace an' truth, 
For what ? to gie their malice skouth 

On some puir wight, 
An 1 hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth, 

To ruin streight. 

All hail, Religion ! maid divine ! 
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, 
Who in her rough imperfect line 

Thus daurs to name thee 
To stigmatize false friends of thine 

Can ne'er defame thee. 

Tho 1 blotcht an' foul wi' mony a stain, 

An' far unworthy of thy train, 

With trembling voice I tune my strain 

To join with those, 
Who boldly dare thy cause maintain 

In spite of foes : 

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, 
In spite of undermining jobs, 
In spite o' dark banditti stabs 

At Worth an 1 merit, 
By scoundrels, evert wi' holy robes. 

But hellish spirit. 



BURNS' POEMS. 375 

Ayr, my dear, my native ground, 
Within thy presbytereal bound 
A candid, lib'ral band is found 

Of public teachers, 
As men, as christians too renown'd, 

An 1 manly preachers. 

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd ; 
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd ; 
An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd, 

(Which gies you honor) 
Even, Sir. by them your heart's esteem'd, 

An' winning manner. 

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, 

An' if impertinent Tve been, 

Impute it not, good Sir, in ane [ye, 

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd 
But to his utmost would befriend 

Ought that belang'd ye. 



TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. 
MAUCHLINE. 

(recommending a boy.) 

Mosgaville, May 3, 1786. 

I hold it, Sir, my bounden duty, 
To warn you how that Master Tootie, 
Alias, Laird M'Gaun,* 

* Master Tootie then lived in Mauchline ; a dealer in 
cows. It was his common practice to cut the nickt 
or markings from the horns of cattle, to disguise Uieir 
age. — He was an artful, trick-contriving character; 
hence he is called a Snick-drawer. In the Poet's "Ad- 
dress to the D«7," he styles that august personage an 
auid, snick-drawing dog l—Reliques, p. 397. 



376 BURNS' POEMS. 

Was here to hire yon lad away 
'Bout whom ye spak the tither day, 

An 1 wad hae don't aff han' : 
But lest he learn the callan tricks, 

As faith I muckle doubt him, 
Like scrapin out auld crummie's nicks 
An' tellin lies about them ; 
As lieve then, I'd have then, 

Your clerkship he should sair, 
If sae be, ye may be 
Not fitted otherwhere. 



Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough, 
An 1 bout a house that's rude an' rough, 
The boy might learn to swear; 
But then wi' you, he'll sae be taught, 
An 1 get sic fair example straught, 

I hae na ony fear. 
Ye'll catechize him every quirk, 

An' shore him well wi' hell; 
An' gar him follow to the kirk 

— Ay when ye gang yoursel, 
If ye then, maun be then 

Frae hame this comin Friday, 
Then please, Sir, to lea'e, Sir, 
The orders wi 1 your lady. 

My word of honor I hae gien, 

In Paisley John's, that night at e'en, 

To meet the WarlaV$ worm, 
To try to get the twa to gree, 
An' name the airles an' the fee, 

In legal mode an' form ; 
I ken he weel a Snick can draw, 

When simple bodies let him ; 
An' if a Devil be at a\ 

In faith he's sure to get him. 



BURNS' POEMS. 377 

To phrase you, an' praise you, 
Ye ken your Laureat scorns ; 

The prayer still, you share still, 
Of grateful Minstrel Burns. 



TO MR. M'ADAM, 

OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN, 

In answer to an obliging Letter he sent tn the 
commencement of my Poetic Career. 

Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, 

I trow it made me proud ; 
See wha taks notice o' the bard ! 

I lap and cry'd fu 1 loud. 

Now deil-ma-care about their jaw, 

The senseless, gawky million ; 
I'll cock my nose aboon them a', 

I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan! 

'Twas noble, Sir ; 'twas like yoursel, 

To grant your high protection : 
A great man's smile ye ken fu' well, 

Is ay a blest infection. 

Tho', by his banes, wha in a tub 

Match 'd Macedonian Sandy ! 
On my ain legs, thro' dirt an' dub, 

I independent stand ay. — 

And when those legs to guid, warm ksii, 

Wi' welcome canna bear me ; 
A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail, 

And barley-scone shall cheer me. 



378 BURNS' POEMS. 

Heaven spare you Iang to kiss the breath 

O' mony flow'ry simmers! 
And bless your bonnie lasses baith,— 

I'm taid the're loosome kimmers ! 

And God bless young Dunaskin's laird, 
The blossom of our gentry ! 

And may he wear an auld man's beard 
A credit to his country. 



TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, 
GLENRIDDEL. 
(Extempore Lines on returning a Newspaper.) 
EUisland, Monday Evening. 

Your news and review, Sir, I've read through 
and through, Sir, 

With little admiring or blaming ; 
The papers are barren of home news or foreign 

No murder or rapes worth the naming. 

Our friends the reviewers, those chippers and 
hewers, 

Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir ; 
But of meet, or unmeet, in a fabric complete, 

I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir. 

My goose-quill too rude is, to tell all your good- 
ness, 

Bestow'd on your servant, the Poet ; 
Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun, 

And then all the world, Sir. should know it ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 379 

TO 
TERB AUGHT Y,* 

ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. 

Health to the Maxwells' vet'ran chief! 
Health, ay unsour'd by care or grief: 
Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sibyl leaf, 

This natal morn, 
I see thy life is stuff o' prief, 

Scarce quite half worn. — 

This day thou metes threescore eleven, 
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven, 
(The second sight, ye ken is given 

To ilka Poet) 
On thee a tack o' seven times seven 

Will yet bestow it. 

If envious buckies view wi' sorrow, 

Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow, 

May desolation's lang-teetrfd harrow, 

Nine miles an hour, 
Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, 

In brunstane stoure. — 

But for thy friends, and they are mony, 
Baith honest men and lasses bonnie, 
May couthie fortune, kind and cannie, 

In social glee, 
Wi' morning blithe and e'enings funny, 

Bless them and thee ! 

Fareweel, auld birkie ! Lord be near ye, 
And then the Deil he daur na steer ye : 
Your friends ay love, your faes ay fear ye; 
For me, shame fa' me, 
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye, 

While Burns they ca' me. 
*Mr. Maxwell, of Terraughty, near Dumfrie*. 



380 BURNS' POEMS. 

TO A LADY. 
With a Present of a Pair of Drinking Glasses 

Fair Empress of the Poet's soul, 

And Queen of Poetesses ; 
Clarinda, take this little boon, 

This humble pair of glasses, — 
And fill them high with generous juice, 

As generous as your mind ; 
And pledge me in the generous toast-* 

44 The whole of human hind /" 
44 To those who love us /" — second fill; 

But not to those whom we love ; 
Lest we love those who love not us '. 

A third — " to thee and me, love /" 



THE VOWELS. 
A TALE. 

'Twas where the birch and sounding thong are 

plied, 
The noisy domicile of pedant pride ; 
Where ignorance her darkening vapor throws, 
And cruelty directs the thickening blows ; 
Upon a time, Sir Abece the great, 
In all his pedagogic powers elate, 
His awful chair of state resolves to mount, 
And call the trembling vowels to account. 

First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight 
But, ah! deform'd, dishonest to the sight! 
His twisted head look'd backward on his way 
And flagrant from the scourge, he grunted, at 

Reluctant, £ stalk'd in ; with piteous grace 
The jiistlirig' tears rah down his honest face : 



BURNS' POEMS. 381 

That name, that well-worn name, and all his 

own, 
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne ! 
The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound, 
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound : 
And next, the title following close behind, 
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assing'd. 

The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded, Y l 
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply : 
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round, 
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground .' 

In rueful apprehension enter'd O, 
The wailing minstrel of despairing wo ; 
Th 1 Inquisitor of Spain the most expert, 
Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art ; 
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, 
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew ' 

As trembling U stood staring all aghast, 
The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast, 
In helpless infant's tears he dipp'd his right, 
Baptiz'd him eu, and kick'd him from his sight. 



SKETCH * 

A little, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, 
And still his precious self his dear delight ; 

♦This sketch seems to be one of a series, intended 
for a projected work, under the tittle of" The Poefx 
Progress." This character was sent as a specimen, 
accompanied by a letter, to Professor Dvgald Stewart, 
in which it is thus noticed: "The fragment beginning 
A little^ upright, pert, tart, fyc, I have not shown to any 
man living, till I now send it to you. It forms the 
postulata, the axioms, the definition of a character, 
which, if it appear at all, shall be placed in a variety 
of lights. This particular part I send you merely a» a 
sample of my hand at portrait sketching." 



382 BURNS POEMS. 

Who loves his own smart shadow in the street* 
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets. — 
A man of fashion too, he made his tour, 
Learn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive Vamour ; 
So travel'd monkeys their grimace improve, 
Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love. 
Much specious lore, but little understood ; 
Veneering oft outshines the solid wood : 
His solid sense — by inches you must tell, 
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell ; 
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend, 
Still making work his selfish craft must mend 



SOOTS PROLOGUE, 

For Mr. Sutherland' s Benefit Night, Dumfries 

What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on, 
How this new play an' that new sang is comin ? 
Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted ? 
Does nonsense mend like whisky, when im- 
ported ? 
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame, 
Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame ? 
For comedy abroad he need na toil, 
A fool and knave are plants of every soil ; 
Nor need he hunt as far as Room and Greece 
To gather matter for a serious piece ; 
There's themes enough in Caledonian story, 
Would show the tragic muse in a 1 her glory. — 

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell 
How glorious Wallace stood, how, hapless, fell! 
Where are the muses fled that could produce 
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce f 



BURNS' POEMS. 383 

How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the 

sword, 
'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord ; 
And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, 
Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws 01 

ruin? 
O for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene. 
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen ! 
Vain all th 1 omnipotence of female charms 
'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's 

arms. 
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, 
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman : 
A woman, tho' the phrase may seem uncivil, 
As able and as cruel as the devil ! 
One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, 
But Douglases were heroes every age: 
And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, 
A Douglas followed ,to the martial strife, 
Perhaps if bowls row right, and Right succeeds, 
Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads ! 

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land 
Would take the muses 1 servants by the hand; 
Not only here, but patronise, befriend them, 
And where ye justly can commend, commend 

them, 
And aiblins when they winna stand the test, 
Wink hard and say, the folks hae done their 

best! 
Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution 
Yell soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation, 
Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack, 
And warsle time an 1 lay him on his back ! 

For us and for our stage should ony spier, 
" Whofr-e aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle 
here V 



384 BURNS' POEMS 

My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow, 
We have the honor to belong to you ! 
We're your own bairns, e'en guide us as ye like. 
But like good mithers, shore before ye strike, — 
And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us, 
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness 
We've got frae a' professions, sets and ranks : 
God help us! we're but poor; — yo'se get but 
thanks. 



EXTEMPORANEOUS EFFUSIOS 

ON BEING* 

APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE. 

Searching auld wives' barrels 

Och, ho ! the day ! 
That clarty barm should stain my laurels 

But — what '11 ye say ! 
These muvin' things ca'd wives and weans, 
Wad muve the very hearts o' stanes ! 



On seeing the beautiful Seat of Lord O. 

What dost thou in that mansion fair ? 

Flit G , and find 

Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave, 

The picture of thy mind ! 



On the Same. 

No Stewart art thou G , 

The Stewarts all were brave , 

Besides, the Stewarts were but fools , 
Not one of them a knave. 



BURNS' POEMS. 385 

On the Same. 

Bright. ran thy line, O G— — , 

Thro 1 many a far fam'd sire ! 
So ran the far-fam'd Roman way, 

So ended in a mire. 



To the Same, on the Author teing threatened 
with his Resentment. 

Spare me thy vengeance, G ■-, 

In quiet let me live : 
I ask no kindness at thy hand, 

For thou hast none to give. 



THE DEAN OF FACULTY. 
A NEW BALLAD. 
Tune— " The Dragon of Wantley." 

Dire was the hate at old Harlaw, 

That Scot to Scot did carry ; 
And dire the discord Langside saw, 

For beauteous, hapless Mary : 
But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot, 

Or were more in fury seen, Sir, 
Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job— 

Who should be Faculty's Dean, Sir. — 

This Hal for genius, wit, and lore, 

Among the first was number'd ; 
But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store, 

Commandment tenth remember'd. 
lfet simple Bob the victory got, 

And wrn his heart's desire ; 

2L 25 



386 burns' poems. 

Which shows that heaven can boil the pot. 
Though the devil p — s in the fire. — 

Squire Hal, besides, had in this case, 

Pretensions rather brassy, 
For talents to deserve a place 

Are qualifications saucy ; 
So their worships of the Faculty, 

Quite sick of Merit's rudeness, 
Chose one who should owe it all, d'ye see, 

To their gratis grace and goodness. 

As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight 

Of a son of Circumcision, 
So may be, on this Pisgah height, 

Rob's purblind, mental vision: 
Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet, 

Till for eloquence you hail him, 
And swear he has the Angel met 

That met the Ass of Balaam. — 



EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT Ot 
SESSION. 

Tunk— " Gillicrankie." 

LORD A TE. 

He clench'd his- pamphlets in his fist, 

He quoted and he hinted, 
Till in a declamation-mist, 

His argument he tint it : 
He gaped for \, he graped for 't, 

He fand it was awa, man ; 
But what his common sense came short. 

He eked out wi' law, man. 



BURNS' POEMS. 387 

MR. ER — NE. 

Collected Harry stood awee, 

Then open'd out his arm, man ; 
His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e, 

And ey'd the gathering storm, man ; 
Like wind-driv'n hail it did assail, 

Or torrents owre a lin, man ; 
The Bench sae wise, lift up their eyes 

Haif-wauken'd wi' the din, man. 



VERSES TO J. RANKEN. 

[The Person to whom his Poem on shooting the 
Patridge is addressed, while Banken occupied 
the Farm of Adamhill, in Ayrshire.] 
Ae day, as Death, that gruesome carl, 
Was driving to the tither warl 
A mixtie-maxtie motley squad, 
And mony a guilt-bespotted lad ; 
Black gowns of each denomination, 
And thieves of every rank and station, 
From him that wears the star and garter, 
To him that wintles* in a halter : 
AshanVd himself to see the wretches, 
He mutters, glow'rin at the bitches, 
" By G-d, I'll not be seen behint them, 
Nor 'mang the sp'rtual core present them, 
Without, at least ae honest man, 

To grace this d d infernal clan." 

By Adamhill a glance he threw, 
" L — d G-d !" quoth he, " I have it now, 
There's just the man I want, in faith," 
And quickly stoppet RankeiCs breath. 

•The word ivintie, denotes sudden and involuntary 
motion. In the ludicrous sense in which it is hen- ap- 

tlied, it may be admirably translated by the vutgai 
lOndon expression of Dancing upon nothing. 



388 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

On hearing that there was Falsehood in the Re* 
Dr. B 's very Looks. 

That there is falsehood in his looks, 

I must and will deny : 
They say their master is a knave— 

And sure they do not lie. 



On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish, Fiftshire. 

Here lie Willie M — hie's banes, 

O Satan, when ye tak him, 
Gie him the schulin of your weans ; 

For clever Deils he'll mak em ! 



ADDRESS TO GENERAL DUMOURIER. 
(A PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR.) 

You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier, 
You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier ; 
How does Dampiere do ? 
Ay, and Bournonville too ? [ourierf 

Why did they not come along with you, Dum- 
1 will fight France with you, Dumourier,— 
I will fight France with you, Dumourier; — 
I will fight France with you, 
I will tak my chance with you ; 
By my soul I'll dance a dance with you, Dum- 
ourier. 
Then let us fight about, Dumourier, 
Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; 
Then let us fight about, 
Till freedom's spark is out, 
Then we'll be d-mned no doubt — Dumourier 



BURNS' POEMS. 

ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788 
A SKETCH. 

For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn, 
E'en let them die — lor that they're born ; 
But oh -' prodigious to reflect ' 
ATowmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck! 
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space, 
What dire events hae taken place ! 
Of what enjoyment thou hast reft us! 
In what a pickle thou hast left us ! 

The Spanish empire 's tint a head, 
An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead , 
The tulzie 's teugh 'tween Pitt an 1 Fox, 
And 'tween our Maggie's twa wee cocks ; 
The tane is game, a bluidie devil, 
But to the hen-birds unco civil ; 
The tither's something dour o' treadin, 
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden.— 

Ye ministers, come mount the poupet> 
An' cry till ye be haerse an' roupit, 
For Eighty-eight, he wish'd you weel, 
An' gied you a 1 baith gear and meal ; 
E'en mony a plack, and mony a peck, 
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck ! 

Ye bonnie lasses, dight your een, 
For some o' you hae tin a frien' ; 
In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en 
What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again. 

Observe the very nowt an' sheep, 
How dowf and dowie now they creep , 
Nay, even the yirth itself does cry. 
For E'nbrugh wells are grutten dry. 

O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn. 
An' no o 1 er a aid, I hope, to learn ! 



390 BURNS' POEMS. 

Thou beardless boy, T pray tak care, 
Thou now hast got thy daddy's chair. 

Nae hand-cufFd, mizzl'd, hap-shackl'd Regent, 
But, like himsel, a full, free agent, 
Be sure ye follow out the plan 
Nae waur than he did, honest man ; 
A§ muckle better as you can. 

January 1, 1789. 



VERSES 

Written under the Portrait of Fergusson, the 
Poet, in a copy of that author's works present- 
ed to a young Lady in Edinburgh, March 19, 
1787. 

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd. 
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure ? 
O thou, my elder brother in misfortune, 
muses, 
fate ! 
Why is the bard unpitied by the world, 
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures ? 



By far my elder brother in the 
With tears I pity thy.unhappy 



SONGS 



OP IN THE MORNING EARLY* 

Up in the morning's no for me, 

Up in the morning early ; 
When a' the hills are covered wV gnaw, 

Vm sure ifs winter fairly. 

Cold blaws the wind frae east to west, 

The drift is driving sairly ; 
Sae loud and shrill I hear the blast, — 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

The birds sit chittering in the thorn, 

A' day they fare but sparely ; 
And lang's the night frae e'en to morn, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

Up in the morning, (J-c. 



SONG. 

I DREAM 1, I LAY WHERE FLOWERS 
SPRINGING.t 

1 dream'd I lay where flowers were springing, 

Gaily in the sunny beam ; 
Lisfning to the wild birds singing, 
By a falling, crystal stream ; 

* The chorus is old. 

t These two stanzas I composed when I was seven- 
teen, and are among the oldest of my printed pieces.— 
Burns' Reliques, d. 242 391 



392 BURNS 1 POEMS 

Straight the sky grew black and daring ; 

Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave ; 
Trees with aged arms were warring 

O'er the swelling, drumlie wave. 

Such was my life's deceitful morning, 

Such the pleasures I enjoy'd ; 
But lang e'er noon, loud tempests storming, 

A 1 my flow'ry bliss destroy'd. 
T/io' fickle fortune has deceived me, 

She promis'd fair, and perform 'd but ill , 
Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me, 

I bear a heart shall support me still. 



SONG.* 

BEWARE O' BONNIE ANN. 

Ye gallants bright, I red you right, 

Beware o' bonnie Ann ; 
Her comely face, sae fu 1 o' grace, 

You heart she will trepan. 

Her een sae bright, like stars by night, 

Her skin is like the swan ; 
Sae iimply lac'd her genty waist, 

That sweetly ye might span. 

Youth, grace, and love, attendant more, 
And pleasure leads the van : 

* I composed this song out of compliment to Mis* 
Ann Masterton, the daughter of my friend Allan Mas- 
terton, the author of the air of Struthallan's Lament, 
and two or three others in this work. — Burns' 1 Rdiquea. 
p. 266. 



BURNS' POEMS. 393 

In a' their charms, and conquering arms, 
They wait on bonnie Ann. 

The captive bands may chain the hands, 

But love enslaves the man ; 
Ye gallants braw, I red ye a', 

Beware o' bonnie Ann. 



SONG 
MY BONNIE MARY.* 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

An' fill it in a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink before I go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie ; 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith ; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry , 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And I maun lea'e my bonnie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are ranked ready , 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
But it's not the roar o 1 sea or shore, 

Wad make me langer wish to tarry; 
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar, 

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 

* This air is Oswald's; the first half-stanza of the 
•ong is old 
2M 



394 BURNS' POEMS. 

SONG 

there's a youth in this city.* 

There's a youth in this city, it were a great 
pity, 
That he from our lasses should wander awa*; 
For he's bonnie and braw, weel-favor'd with a', 

And his hair has a natural buckle and a'. 
His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue ; 

His fecket is white as the new-driven snaw , 
His hose they are blae, and his shoon like the 
slae, 
And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a', 
His coat is the hue, &c. 

For beauty and fortune the laddie's been courtin; 
Weel-featur'd, weel-tocher'd, weel-rnounted 
and braw ; 
But chiefly the siller, that gars him gang till her, 

The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a'.— 
There's Meg wi' the mailen, that fain wad a 
haen him, 
And Susy whase daddy was Laird o' the ha 1 ; 
There's lang- tocher 'd Nancy maist fetters his 
fancy, 
But the laddie's dear sel he lo'es dearest of a'. 



SONG 

MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. t 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not 

here ; 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; 

•This air is claimed by Niel Gow, who calls It hit 
lament for his brother. The first half-stanza oi the 
«ong is old. t The first half-stanza is old. 



BURNS' POEMS. 395 

Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
My heart's, in the Highlands, wherever I go. 
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, 
The birth-place of valor, the country of worth ; 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, 
The hills of the Highlands forever I love. 

Farewell to the mountains high cover' d with 

snow ; 
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below ; 
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods ; 
Farewell to the torrents and loud pouring floods. 
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not 

here, 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer , 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe. 
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 



SONG.* 

THE RANTIN DOG THE DADDIE o't. 

O wha my babie-clouts will buy ? 
Wha will tent me when I cry ? 
Wha will kiss me whare I lie ? 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. — 

Wha will own he did the faut ? 
Wha will buy my groanin-maut ? 
Wha will tell me how to ca't ? 
The rantin dog the daddie o't.— 

When I mount the creepie-chair, 
Wha will sit beside me there ? 

*I composed this song pretty early in life, and ser' 
it to a young girl, a very particular acquaintance of 
mine, who was at that time under a cloud. — Bumf 
Reliques, p. 278. 



396 BURNS' POEMS. 

Gie me Rob, I seek nae mair, 
The rantin dog the daddie o't.— 

Wha will crack to me my lane ? 
Wha will mak me fidgin fain? 
Wha will kiss me o'er again ? 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. 



SONG, 

I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR.* 

I do confess thou art sae fair, 

I wad been o'er the lugs in hive ; 
Had I na found the slightest prayer 

That lips could speak, thy heart could mure. 

I do confess thee sweet ; but find 
Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets, 

Thy favors are the silly wind 
That kisses ilka thing it meets. 

See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew, 

Amang its native briers sae coy, 
How sune it tines its scent and hue 

When pu'd and worn a common toy • 

Sic fate e'er lang shall thee betide, 
Tho' thou may gaily bloom awhile ; 

Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside, 
Like ony common weed and vile. 

•This song is altered from a poem by Sir Rob. Ayton, 
private secretary to Mary and Anne, queens of Scotland 
The poem is to be found in James Watson's Collec- 
tion of Scots Poems, the earliest collection printed in 
Scotland. I think that J have improved the simplicity 
of the sentiments, by giving them a Scots dresi.— 
Burns' ReliqueSy p. 292. 



BURNS' POEMS. 397 

SONG* 

Tumk— " Craigie-burn Wood."f 

Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, 
And to be lying beyond thee, 

sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep, 
Thai's laid in the bed beyond thee. 

Sweet closes the evening on Craigie-bura- 
wood, 
And blithly awakens the morrow ; 
But the pride of the spring in the Craigie-burn- 
wood 
Can yield to me nothing but sorrow. 
Beyond thee, d/C. 

1 see the spreading leaves and flowers, 

1 hear the wild birds singing ; 
But pleasure they hae nane for me, 

While care my heart is wringing. 
Beyond thee, fyc. 

1 canna tell, I maunna tell, 

I dare na for your anger ; 
But secret love will break, my heart, 

If I conceal it langer. 

Bey oiid thee, fyc. 

*It is remarkable of this place, that it is the confine 
of that country where the greatest part of our Lowland 
music (so far as from the title, words, &c. we can lo- 
calize it) has been composed. From Craigie-burn, near 
Moffat, until one reaches the West Highlands, we have 
scarcely one slow air of any antiquity. 

The song was composed on a passion which a Mr. 
Gillespie, a particular friend of mine, had for a Mis? 
Lorimer, afterwards a Mrs. Whelpdale. The young 
lady was born at Craigie-burn-wood. The chorus is 
part of an old foolish ballad. — Burns' 1 Rdiquea, p. 2;?4. 

tThe chorus is old.— Another copy of this will be 
found, ante p. 101, 



398 BURNS' POEMS. 

I see thee gracefu 1 , straight and tall, 
I see thee sweet and bonnie, 

But oh, what will my torments be, 
If thou refuse thy Johnie ! 
Beyond thee, fyc. 

To see thee in anither's arms, 
In love to lie and languish, 

'Twad be my dead, that will be seen, 
My heart wad burst wi' anguish. 
Beyond thee, fyc. 

But Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine, 
Say thou lo'es nane before me ; 

And a' my days o' life to come 
I'll gratefully adore thee. 

Beyond thee, (J-c. 



SONG-. 

YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. 

Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide 
Thatnursein their bosom the youth o 1 the Civile 
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro 'he 
heather to feed, [his reed 

And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipos on 
Where the grouse, fyc. 

Not Gowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny 
shores, [moors ; 

To me hae the charms o' yon wild, mossy 
For there, by a lanely, and sequester'd stream, 
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and rav 
dream. 

Amang the wild mountains shall still be my 

path, [strath ; 

Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow 



BURNS' POEMS. 399 

/or there, wi' my lassie, the day lang 1 rove, 
While o'er us unheeded fly the swift hours o* 
love. 

She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair ; 
O' nice education but sma 1 is her share : 
Her parentage humble as humble can be ; 
But I lo'e the dear lassie, because she lo'es mo. 

To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize, 
In her amor of glances, and blushes, and sighs ; 
And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her 

darts, 
They dazzle our een, as they flie to our hearts. 

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond spark- 
ling e'e, 

Has lustre outshining the diamond to me ; 

And the heart-beating love, as I'm clasp'd in 
her arms, 

O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms ! 



SONG 
WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR ? 

Wha is that at my bower door ? 

wha is it but Findlay ; 
Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here ! 

Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay. 
What mak ye sae like a thief? 

O come and see, quo' Findlay ; 
Before the morn ye' 11 work mischief; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 



Gif I rise and let you in ? 
Let me in quo' Findlay j 



400 BURNS' POEMS. 

Ye' 11 keep me waukin wi' your din j 
Indeed will I, quo Findlay. 

In my bower if ye should stay ? 
Let me stay, quo' Findlay ; 

I fear ye' 11 bide till break o 1 day; 
Indeed will I ; quo 1 Findlay. 

Here this night if ye remain, 

I'll remain, quo' Findlay; 
I dread ye'll learn the gate again; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay ; 
What may pass within this bower, 

Let it pass, quo' Findlay ; 
Ye maun conceal to your last hour ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay ! 



SONG* 
Tukb— " The Weaver and his Shuttle, O." 

My Father was a Farmer upon the Carrick bor- 
der, O, 

And carefully he bred me in decency and or- 
der, O ; 

He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne'er 
a farthing, 0, 

For without an honest, manly heart, no man was 
worth regarding, O. 

Then out into the world my course I did deter 

mine, 0, 
Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be 

great was charming, ; 

•This song is wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in 
versification ; but as the sentiments are the genuine 
feelings of my heart, for that reason 1 have a particular 
pleasure in conning it over. — Burns' Reliyuts, p. *J29. 



BURNS* POEMS. 401 

My talents they were not the worst ; nor yet 
my education, ; 

Resolv'd was I, at least to try, to mend my situ- 
ation, O. 

In many a way, and vain essay, I courted for- 
tune's favor, O ; 

Some cause unseen, still stept between, to frus- 
trate each endeavor, ; 

Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd ; some- 
times by friends forsaken, O, 

And when my hope was at the top, I still was 
worst mistaken, O. 

Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last, with for- 
tune's vain delusion, O, 

I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came 
to this conclusion, O, 

The past was bad, and the future hid ; its good 
or ill untried. ; 

But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so 
I would enjoy it, O. 

No help, nor hope, nor view, had I, nor person 
to befriend me, O, 

So I must toil, and sweat, and broil, and labor 
to sustain me, ; 

To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my fa- 
ther bred me early, O ; 

For one, he said, to labor bred, was a match for 
fortune fairly, 0. 

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' life 
I'm doom'd to wander, O, 

Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting 
slumber, ; 

No view nor care, but shun whate'er might 
breed me pain and sorrow, O, 

I live to-day, as well's I may, regardless of to- 
morrow, O. 

26 



402 BURNS' POEMS. 

But cheerful still, I am as well, as a monarch 

in a palace, O, 
Tho 1 fortune's frown still' hunts me down, with 

all her wonted malice, O ; 
I make, indeed, my daily bread, but ne'er can 

make it farther, O ; 
But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much 

regard her, O. 

When sometimes by my labor I earn a little 

money, O, 
Some unforeseen misfortune comes generally 

upon me, O ; 
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good- 

natur'd folly, ; 
But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er 

be melancholy, 0. 

All you, who follow wealth and power with un- 
remitting ardor, O, 

The more in this you look for bliss, you leave 
your view the farther, ; 

Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nation* 
to adore you, O, 

A cheerful, honest- hearted clown, I will prefer 
before you, 0. 



SONG 

Tho' cruel fate should bid us part, 

As far's the pole and line ; 
Her dear idea round my heart 

Should tenderly entwine. 

Tho' mountains frown, and deserts howl, 

And oceans roar between ; 
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, 

I still would love my Jean. 



BURNS' POEMS. 403 



SONG 



Ak fond kiss and then we sever , 
Ae fareweel, alas, forever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that fortune grieves him, 
While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy : 
But to see her, was to love her ; 
Love but her, and love forever. 
Had we never lov'd sae kindly, 
Had we never lov'd sae blindly, 
Never met — or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest ! 
Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest ! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love and pleasure ! 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
Ae fareweel, alas, forever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I pledge thee, 
Warring sigh and groans I'll wage thee. 



SONG. 
MOW BANK AN' BRAE ARE CLAITH'D IN GREK*. 

Now bank an' brae are claith'd in green, 
An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring ; 

By Girvan's fairy haunted stream, 
The birdies flit on wanton wing. 



404 BURNS' POEMS. 

To Cassillis' banks, when e'ening fa's, 
There wi 1 my Mary let me flee, 

There catch her ilka glance of love. 
The bonnie blink o 1 Mary's e'e ! 

The child wha boasts o' warld's wealth, 

Is aften laird o' meikle care ; 
But Mary she is a' my ain, 

Ah, fortune canna gie me mair ! 
Then let me range by Cassillis' banks, 

Wi 1 her the lassie dear to me, 
And catch her ilka glance o' love, 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e ' 



SONG. 

THE BONNIE LAD THAT'S FAR AWA. 

O how can I be blithe and glad, 
Or how can I gang brisk and braw, 

When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best. 
Is o'er the hills and far awa ? 

I*, s no the frosty winter wind, 

It' 8 no the driving drift and snaw ; 

But ay the tear comes in my e'e, 
To think on him that's far awa. 

My father pat me frae his door, 

My friends they hae disown'd me a' 

But I hae ane will tak my part, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 

A pair o' gloves he gave to me, 
And silken snoods he gave me twa , 

And I will wear them for his sake, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 



BUR*a POEMS. 405 

1 he weary winter soon will pass, 
And spring will deed the birker. shaw ; 

And my sWeet babie will be born, 
And he'll come hame that's far awa. 

SWEETEST MAY. 
Altered from Allan Ramsay's song : — 

"Here's my thumb, I'll ne'er beguile ye. w 

Tea Table Miscellany, vol. i. p. 70 
Sweetest May, let love inspire thee ; 
Take a heart which he desires thee ; 
As thy constant slave regard it ; 
For its faith and truth reward it. 
Proof o' shot to birth or money, 
Not the wealthy, but the bonnie ; 
Not high-born, but noble-minded, 
In love's silken band can bind it. 



SONG. 

I'LL AY CA' IN BY YON TOWN. 

I'LL ay ca' in by yon town, 

And by yon garden green, again ; 
I'll ay ca' in by yon town, 

And see my bonnie Jean again. 
There's nane sail ken, there's nane sail gv< 

What brings me back the gate again, 
But she, my fairest, faithfu' lass, 

And stowlins we sail meet again. 
She'll wander by the aiken tree, 

When trystin-time* draws near again ; 
And when her lovely form 1 see, 

O haith, she's doubly dear again ! 

* Trystin-time— the time of appointment 



406 BURNS' POEMS. 

SONG. 
WHISTLE O'ER THE LAVE o'T. 

First when Maggy was my care, 
Heav'n, I thought, was in her air ; 
Now we're married — spier nae mair — 

Whistle o'er the lave o't.— 
Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, 
Bonnie Meg was nature's child — 
Wiser men than me's beguil'd : 
Whistle o'er the lave o't. 

How we live, my Meg and me, 
How we love, and how we 'gree, 
I care na how few may see ; 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. — 
What I wish, were maggot's meat, 
Dish'd up in her winding sheet, 
I could write — but Meg maun see't — 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 



SONG. 
YOUNG JOCKEY. 

Young Jockey was the blithest lad 

In a' our town or here awa ; 
Fu' blithe he whistled at the gaud, 

Fu' lightly danc'd he in the ha' ! 
He roos'd my e'en sae bonnie blue, 

He roos'd my waist sae gently sma; 
An' ay my heart came to my mou, 

When ne'er a body heard or saw. 

My Jockey toils upon the plain, 
Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and ana* 



Bl RNS' «P0EMS. 407 

And o'er the lee I leuk fu' fain 
When Jockey's owsen hameward ca\ 

An' ay the night comes round again, 
When in his arms he taks me a' : 

And ay he vows he'll be my ain, 
As lang's he has a breath to draw. 



SONG 
m'fherson's farewell. 

Tune— " M'Pherson's Lament" 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, 

The wretch's destinie ! 
M'Pherson's time will not be long, 

On yonder gallows tree. 

Sae ranlingly, sae wantonly, 

Sae dauntingly gaed he ; 
He played a spring and danced it round. 

Below the gallows tree. 

Oh, what is death but parting breath f— 

On mony a bloody plain 
I've dar'd his face, and in this place 

I scorn him yet again ! 

Sae rantingly, (J-c. 

Untie these bands from Off my hands, 

And bring to me my sword ; 
And there's no a man in all Scotland, 

But I'll brave him at a word. 
Sae rantingly, <$•<?. 

I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife ; 
I die by treacherie : 



408 BURNS* POEMS. 

It burns my heart, I must depart, 
And not avenged be. 

Sae rantingly, 6/C. 

Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, 

And all beneath the sky ! 
May coward shame distain his name, 

The wretch that dares not die ! 
Sae rantingly, o/C. 



SONG. 

Here's a bottle and an honest friend ' 

What wad ye wish for mair, man ? 
Wha kens, before his life may end, 

What his share may be of care, man t 
Then catch the moments as they fly, 

And use them as ye ought, man :— 
Believe me, happiness is shy, 

And comes not ay when sought, man 



SONG. 
Tune— " Braes o' Balquhidder. w 

ril kiss thee yet, yet, 

An" 1 ril kiss thee o'er again, 

An* Til kiss thee yet, yet, 
My bonnie Peggy Alison ! 

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near, 

I ever mair defy them, O ; 
Young kings upon their hansel throne, 

Are no sae blest as I am, O ! 
I'll kiss thee, $-c. 



BURNS' POEMS. 409 

When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, 
I clasp rny countless treasure, O ; 

I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share, 
Than sic a moment's pleasure, O. 
ril kiss thee, fyc. 

And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 

I swear I'm thine forever, O ; 
And on thy lips I seal my vow, 

And break it shall I never, O. 
I'll kiss thee, <J-c. 



SONG. 
Tbre— " If he be a Butcher neat and trim.* 

On Cessnock banks there lives a lass, 
Could I describe her shape and mien ; 

The graces of her weelfar'd face, 
And the glancin of her sparklin een. 

She's fresher than the morning dawn, 

When rising Phoebus first is seen, 
When dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn; 

An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 
She's stately like yon youthful ash, 

That grows the cowslip braes between, 
And shoots its head above each bush ; 

An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

She's spotless as the flow'ring thorn, 

With flow'rs so white and leaves so green, 

When purest in the dewy morn ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

Her looks are like the sportive lamb> 
When flow'ry May adorns the scene, 



410 BURNS' POEMS. 

That wantons round its bleating dam, 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

Her hair is like the curling mist 
That shades the mountain-side at e'en, 

When flow'r-reviving rains are past ; 
An 1 she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, 
When shining sunbeams intervene 

And gild the distant mountain's brow ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush 
That sings in Cessnock banks unseen, 

While his mate sits nestling in the bush ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

Her lips are like the cherries ripe, 
That sunny walls from Boreas screen, 

They tempt the taste and charm the sight 
An 1 she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep, 
With fleeces newly washen clean, 

That slowly mount the rising steep ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

Her breath is like the fragrant breeze 
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean, 

When Phoebus sinks behind the seas ; 
An 1 she's twa glancin sparklin een. 

But it's not her air, her form, her face, 
Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen, 

But the mind that shines in ev'ry grace, 
An' chiefly in her sparklin een. 



BURNS' POEMS. 41 1 

WAE IS MY HEART 

Wie is my heart, and the fear's in my e'e ; 
Lang, lang joy's been a stranger to me : 
forsaken and friendless, my burden I bear, [ear. 
And the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in my 

Love, thou hast pleasure ; and deep hae I loved , 
Love, thou hast sorrows ; and sair hae I proved i 
But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my 

breast, 
I can feel by its throbbings, will soon be at rest. 

O if I were, where happy I hae been ; [green : 
Down by yon stream and yon bonnie castle 
\i?u re he is wan d'ring and musing on me, 
Wha wad soon dry the tear frae Phillis's e'e. 



SONG. 
Tcnk— " Banks of Banna." 
Yestreen I had a pint o 1 wine, 

A place where body saw na' ; 
Yestreen lay on this breast o 1 mine 

I'he gowden locks of Anna. 
The hungry Jew in wilderness 

Re Joicing o'er his manna, 
Was naething to my hiney bliss 

Upon the lips of Anna. 

Ye monarchs, tak the east and west, 

Frae Indus to Savanna ! 
Gl £ me within my straining grasp 

The melting form of Anna. 
I herein despise imperial charms, 

An Empress or Sultana. 



412 BURNS' POEMS. 

While dying raptures in her arms 

I give and take with Anna ! 
Awa thou Haunting god o' day ! 

Awa thou pale Diana ! 
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray 

When. I'm to meet my Anna. 
Come, in thy raven plumage, night, 

Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a 1 , 
And bring an angel pen to write 

My transports wi' my Anna ! 



SONG* 

The Deil cam fiddling thro' the town, 
And danc'd awa wi 1 the exciseman ; 
And ilka wife cry'd, " Auld Mahoun, 
We wish you luck o' the prize, man. 
" We'll mak our maul, and brew our drink, 
We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man • 
And mony thanks to the muckle black Deil, 
That danced awa wi' the exciseman. 
44 There's threesome reels, and foursome reels, 

There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; 
But the ae best dance e'er cam to our Ian', 
Was — the Deil's awa wi' the exciseman. 
We'll mak our maut, &>c. 



SONG. 

Powers celestial, whose protection 
Ever guards the virtuous fair, 

• At a meeting ofhis brother Excisemen in Dumfries, 
Burns, being called upon for a song, handed these 
verses extempore to the President, written on the back 
of a letter. 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 413 

While in distant climes I wander, 

Let my Mary be your care : 
Let her form, sae fair and faultless, 

Fair and faultless as your own ; 
Let my Mary's kindred spirit, 

Draw your choicest influence down. 

Make the gales you waft around her, 

Soft and peaceful as her breast ; 
Breathing in the breeze that fans her, 

Soothe her bosom into rest : 
Guardian angels, O protect her, 

When in distant lands I roam; 
To realms unknown while fate exiles me, 

Make her bosom still my home.* 



HUNTING SONG. 

I RED YOU BEWARE AT THE HUNTING. 

The heather was blooming, the meadows were 

mawn, 
Our lads gaed a-hunting, ae day at the dawn, 
O'er moors and o'er mosses, and mony a glen, 
At length they discovered a bonnie moor-hen. 

J red you beware at the hunting, young men; 
J red you beware at the hunting, young men; 
Tak some on the wing, and some as they spring, 
But cannily steal on the bonnie moor-hen. 

Sweet brushing the dew from the brown hea- 
ther bells, 
Her colors betray 'd her on yon mossy fells ; 

•Probably written on Highland Mary, on the ere 
•f the Poet's departure to the West Indies. 



414 BURNS' POEMS. 

Her plumage outlustred the pride o the spring, 
And O ! as she wantoned gay on the wing. 
I red, <$-c> 

Auld Phcebus himsel, ashepeep'd o'er the hill, 

In spite at her plumage he tried his skill ; 

He leveU'd his rays where she bask'd on the 

brae— 
His rays were outshone, and but mark'd where 

she lay; / red, $-c. 

They hunted the, valley, they hunted the hill ; 
The best of our lads wi 1 the best o' their skill ; 
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight, 
Then, whirr ! she was over, a mile at a flight. 
/ red, <$-c. 



YOUNG PEGGY 

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, 

Her blush is like the morning, 
The rosy dawn, the springing grass, 

With early gems adorning : 
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams 

That gild the passing shower, 
And glitter o'er the crystal streams, 

And cheer each fresh'ning flower. 

Her lips were more than cherry bright, 

A richer die has grac'd them, 
They charm the admiring gazer's sight, 

And sweetly tempt to taste them : 
Her smile is as the ev'ning mild, 

When feather'd pairs are courting, 
And little lambkins wanton wild, 

In playful bands disporting. 



Bl/RNS' POEMS. 415 

Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe, 

Such sweetness would relent her, 
As blooming Spring unbends the brow 

Of surly, savage Winter. 
Detraction's eyes no aim can gain 

Her winning powers to lessen : 
And fretful envy grins in vain, 

The poison'd tooth to fasten. 

Ye pow'rs of Honor, Love, and Truth, 

From ev'ry ill defend her; 
Inspire the highly favor'd youth 

The destinies intend her ; 
Still fan the sweet connubial flame 

Responsive in each bosom ; 
And bless the dear parental name 

With many a filial blossom. * 



SONG. 
Tune— "The King of France, he rade a Race .» 

Amang the trees where humming bees 

At buds and flowers were hanging, 0, 
Auld Caledon drew out her drone, 

And to her pipe was singing, O ; 
Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels, 

She dirl'd them aff, fu' clearly, O, 
When there cam a yell o 1 foreign squeels, 

That dang her tapsalteerie, O. 

Their capon craws and queer ha ha's, 
They made our lugs grow eerie, 0, 
The hungry bike did scrape an pike 
Till we were wae and weary, O ; 
• This was one of the Poet's earliest composition* 
It is copied from a MS. book, which he had before his 
ftrtt publication. 



416 BURNS' POEMS. 

But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'd 
A prisoner aughteen year awa, 

He fir'd a fiddler in the North, 
That dang them tapsalteerie, O. 



SONG. 
-" John Anderson my Jo." 

One night as I did wander, 

When corn begins to shoot, 
I sat me down to ponder, 

Upon an auld tree root : 
Auld Aire ran by before me, 

And bicker'd to the seas ; 
A cushat crowded o'er me 

That echoed thro' the braes. 



SONG. 

Tune—" Dainty Davie." 

There was a lad was born at Kyle,* 
But what na day o 1 what na style 
I doubt it's hardly worth the while 
To be sae nice wi' Robin. 
Robin was a rovin" 1 boy, 

Rantin" 1 rovin', ranlin? rovin 1 ; 
Robin was a rovin" 1 boy, 
Rantin' rovin" 1 Robin. 

Our monarch's hindmost year but ane 
Was five and twenty days begun, 

• Kyle— a district of Ayrshire 



BURNS' POEMS. 417 

'Twas then a blast o' Janwar Win' 

Blew hansel in on Robin. 
The gossip keekit in his loof, 
Quo' scho wha lives will see the proof, 
This waly boy will be nae coof, 

I think we'll ca' him Robin. 
He'll hae misfortunes great and sma', 
But ay a heart aboon them a' ; 
He'll be a credit till us a', 

We'll a' be proud o' Robin. 
But sure as three times three mak nine, 
I see by ilka score and line, 
This chap will dearly like our kin 1 , 

So leeze me on thee, Robin. 
Good faith quo' scho I doubt you, Sir, 
Ye gar the lasses * * * * 
But twenty fauts ye may hae waur, 

So blessin's on thee, Robin / 

Robin was a rovin" 1 boy, 

Rantin' rovin\ ranlin* rovin* } 

Robin was a rovin' boy, 
Rantiii* rovin 1 Robin. 



SONG. 
Tunk — "I had a Horse, and I had nae mairt 

When first I came to Stewart Kyle, 

My mind it was nae steady, 
Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade, 

A mistress still I had ay : 
But when I came roun' by Mauchline town, 

Not dreadin' any body, 
My heart was caught before I thought, 

And by a Mauchline lady. 
»U * * 27 * • 



418 BURNS' POEMS. 

SONG 
Tune—" Galla Water." 

Ai/tho' my bed were in yon muir. 

Amang the heather, in my plaidie, 
Yet happy, happy would I be, 

Had I my dear Montgornerie's Peggy.— 

When o'er the hill beat surly storms, 
And winter nights were dark and rainy; 

1*11 seek some dell, and in my arms 
I'd shelter dear Montgornerie's Peggy. 

Were I a Baron proud and high, 
And horse and servants waiting ready, 

Then a 1 'twad gie o 1 joy to me, 
The sharin't with Montgornerie's Peggy 



SONG. 

O raging fortune's withering blast 

Has laid my leaf full low, O ! 
O raging fortune's withering blast 

Has laid my leaf full low, O ! 
My stem was fair, my bud was green, 

My blossom sweet did blow, ; 
The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild, 

And made my branches grow, ; 
But luckless fortune's northern storms 

Laid a' my blossoms low, O ; 
But luckless fortune's nothern storms 

Laid a' my blossoms low, 0. 



BURNS' POEMS. 419 

SOWG. 

patriot}. unfinished. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to t^m ths « »wa ; 

And wha winna vvisn guid iif .'•> to our cause, 

May never guid luck be thob »»\ 

It's guid to be merr> an J v/i ^ 

It's guid to be honest and tl»s 

It's guid to suppo.'i Ta'odnjiut .-' cause, 

And bide by the bufi und ihv t-lue. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

Here's 'a health to Charlie,* the chief o' the clan, 

Altho' that his band be but sma'. 

May liberty meet wi' success ! 

May prudence protect her frae evil ! 

May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, 

And wander their way to the devil ! 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to Tammie.t the Norland laddie, 

That lives at the lug o' the law ! 

Here's freedom to him that wad read, 

Here's freedom to him that wad write ! [heard, 

There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should bt 

But they wham the truth wad indict. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's a health to them that's awa, [gowd. 
Here's chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain wortfe 
Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw ! 



* C. Foi. t Lord Erskine. 



420 BURNS* POEMS. 

SONG. 
THE PLOUGHMAN. 

As 1 was a- wand' ring ae morning in spring, 
I heard a young ploughman sae sweetly to sing 
And as he was singin' thir words he did say, 
There's nae life like the ploughman's, in the 
month o' sweet May. — 

The lav'rock in the morning, she'll rise frae her 
nest, [breast, 

And mount to the air wi' the dew on her 

And wi' the merry ploughman she'll whistle 
and sing, 

And at night she'll return to her nest back again. 



SONG. 

Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, 

Adown her neck and bosom hing ; 
How sweet unto that breast to cling, 

And round that neck entwine her ! 
Her lips are roses wat wi' dew, 

O, what a feast, her bonnie mou ! 
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, 

A crimson still diviner. 



BALLAD. 

To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plaina. 
Where late wi' careless thought I rang'd, 

Though prest wi' care, and sunk in wo, 
To thee I bring a heart unchang'd. 



BURNS' POEMS. 491 

I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, 
Tho' mem'ry there my bosom tear; 

For there he rov'd that brake my heart, 
Yet to that heart, ah, still how dear ! 



SONG. 

The winter it is past, and the simmer comes ss 
last, 

And the small birds sing on every *ree ? 
Now every thing is glad, while I am very sad. 

Since my true love is parted from me. 

The rose upon the brier, by the waters running 
clear, 
May have charms for the linnet or the bee ; 
Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts 
at rest, 
But my true love is parted from me. 



THE 

GUI DWIFE OF WAUC HOPE -HOUSE 

TO 
ROBERT BURNS. 

February, 1787. 
Mv canty, witty, rhyming ploughman, 
I haffiins doubt, it is na true, man, 
That ye between the stilts were bred, 
Wi' ploughmen school'd, wi' ploughmen fed. 
I doubt it sair, ye've drawn your knowledge 
Either frae grammar-school, or college. 



■22 BURNS' POEMS. 

Guid troth, your saul and body baith 

War' better fed, I'd gie my aith, 

Than theirs, who sup sour-milk and pairitch, 

An' bummil thro' the single caritch. 

Wha ever heard the ploughman speak, 

Could tell gif Homer was a Greek ? 

He'd flee as soon upon a cudgel, 

As get a single line of Virgil. 

An' then sac slee ye crack your jokes 

0' Willie P— t and Charlie F— x; 

Our great men a' sae weel descrive, 

An' how to gar the nation thrive, 

Ane maist wad swear ye dwalt amang them, 

An' as ye saw them, sae ye sang them. 

But be ye ploughman, be ye peer, 

Ye are a funny blade, I swear ; 

An' though the cauld I ill can bide, 

Yet twenty miles, an' mair, I'd ride, 

O'er moss, an' muir, an' never grumble, 

Tho 1 my auld yad shou'd gie a stumble, 

To crack a winter-night wi' thee, 

And hear thy sangs and sonnets slee. 

A guid saut herring, an' a cake, 

Wi 1 sic a chiel, a feast wad make, 

I'd rather scour your reaming y ill, 

Or eat o 1 cheese and bread my fill, 

Than wi' dull lairds on turtle dine, 

An' ferlie at their wit and wine. 

O, gif I kenn'd but whare ye baide, 

I'd send to you a marled plaid ; 

'Twad haud your shoulders warm and braw, 

A.n' douse at kirk, or market shaw. 

For south, as weel as north, my lad, 

A' honest Scotchmen lo'e the maud, 

Right wae that we're sae far frae ither ; 

Yet proud I am to ca' ye brither. 

Your most obed't. 

e. a 



BURNS' POEMS. 423 

THE ANSWER 

GuiDWIFE, . 

I mind it weel, in early date, 

When I was beardless, young, and blate, 

An' first could thresh the barn ; 
Or haud a yokin at the pleugh, 
An' tho' forfoughten sair enough, 

Yet unco proud to learn ; 
When first amang the yellow corn 

A man 1 reckon'd was, 
And wi 1 the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass, 
Still shearing, and clearing 
The tither stooked raw, 
Wi 1 claivers, an' haivers, 
Wearing the day awa.— 

E'n then a wish, (I mind its power) 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast ; 
That I, for poor auld Scotland's sake, 
Some usefu 1 plan, or book could make, 

Or sing a sang at least ; 
The rough bur-thistle, spreading wide 

Among the bearded bear, 
I turn'd my weeding-heuk aside, 
An 1 spar'd the symbol dear; 
No nation, no station, 

My envy e'er could raise, 
A Scot still, but blot jtill, 
I knew nae highes praise. 

But still the elements o' sang 

In formless jumble, rignt an' wrang, 

Wild floated in my brain; 
Till on that har'st I said before, 
My partner in the merry core, 

She rous'd the »orming strain; 



424 BURNS' POEMS. 

I see her yet, the sonsie quean, 

That lighted up her jingle, 
Her witching smile, her pauky e'en, 
That gart my heart-strings tingle ; 
I fired, inspired, 

At ev'ry kindling keek, 
But bashing, and dashing, 
I feared ay to speak. 
Hale to the set, each guid chiel says, 
Wi' merry dance in winter-days, 

An' we to share in common : 
The gust o' ioy, the balm of wo, 
The saul o' life, the heav'n below, 

Is rapture-giving woman. 
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name. 

Be mindfu' o' your mither : 
She, honest woman, may think shame, 
That ye're connected with her. 
Ye're wae men, ye're nae men, 
That slight the lovely dears ; 
To shame ye, disclaim ye, 
Ilk honest birkie swears. 
For you, na bred to barn and byre, 
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre 

Thanks to you for your line. 
The marled plaid ye kindly spare, 
By me should gratefully be ware ; 

'Twad please me to the Nine. 
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap, 
Douse hingin o'er my curple 
Than ony ermine ever lap, 
Or proud imperial purple. 
Fareweel then, lang hale then, 

An' plenty be your fa': 
May losses and crosses 
Ne'er at your hallan ca\ 

Robert Bu*-sr«. 
Marek, nr». 



BURNS' POEMS. 425 

SONS. 
Tuntt— " The tither morn, as I forlorn." 

Von wand'ring rill, that marks the hill, 

And glances o'er the brae, Sir : 
Slides by a bower where mony a flower, 

Sheds fragrance on the day, Sir. 

There Damon lay, with Sylvia gay : 
To love they thought nae crime, Sir; 

The wild-birds sang, the echoes rang, 
While Damon's heart beat time, Sir. 



SONG. 

As I cam in by our gate-end, 

As day was waxen weary ; 
O wha cam tripping down the street, 

But bonnie Peg, my dearie. 

Her air sae sweet, and shape complete, 
Wi' nae proportion wanting ; 

The queen of love, did never move, 
Wi 1 motion mair enchanting. 

Wi' linked hands, we took the sands, 

Adown yon winding river, 
And, oh ! that h«ur, an' broomy bower, 

Can I forget it ever ? 



POLLY STEWART. 
Tone— " Ye're welcome, Charlie Stewart." 
O lovely Polly Stewart, 



charming Polly Stewart, 



426 BURNS' POEMS. 

There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May. 
That's half so fair as thou art. 

The flower it blaws, it fades, it fa's, 

And art can ne'er renew it ; 
But worth and truth, eternal youth 

Will gie to Polly Stewart. 

May he, whase arms shall fauld thy charms, 

Possess a leal and true heart ; 
To him be given to ken the heaven 

He grasps in Polly Stewart ! 



THERE WAS A BONNIE LASS. 

There was a bonnie lass, and a bonnie, bonnie 
lass, 

And she lo'ed her bonnie laddie dear ; [arms, 
Till war's loud alarms tore her laddie frae her 

Wi' mony a sigh and a tear. [roar 

Over sea, over shore, where the cannons loudly 

He still was a stranger to fear ; 
And notcht could him quell, or his bosom assail, 

But the bonnie lass he lo'ed sae dear. 



TIBBIE DUNBAR. 
Tune—" Johnny M'Gill." 

wilt thou go wi 1 me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar j 

wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar; 
Wilt thou ride on a horse, or be drawn in a car, 
Or walk by my side, O sweet Tibbie Dunbar? 

1 carena thy daddie, his lands and his money, 
I carena thy kin, sae high and sae lordi/ : 



BURNS' POEMS. 427 

Bat say thou wilt hae me for better for waur, 
And come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dunbar. 



ROBIN SHURE IN HAIRST 

Rcbi?i shure in kairst, 

I shure wi' ?iim, 
Fient a heuk had I, 

Yet 1 stack by him. 

I gaed up to Dunse, 

To warp a wad o 1 plaiden, 

At his daddie's yett, 

Wha met me but Robin ! 
Robin shure, <$-c. 

Was na Robin bauld, 

Tho' I was a cotter, 
Play'd me 3ic a trick, 

And me the eller's dochter f 
Robin shure, <$-c. 

Robin promis'd me 

A' my winter vittle ; 
Fient haet he had but three 

Goose feathers and a whittle. 
Robin shure, (J-c. 



•17 LADY S GOWN THERE'S GAIR8 
UPON'T. 

My lady's gown there s gairs upon't, 
And gowden flowers sae rare upon't; 
But Jenny's jimps andjirkinet, 
My lord thinks muckle mai'r upon't. 



SCO BURNS' POEMS. 

My lord a-hunting he is gane, 
But hounds or hawks wi 1 him are nane, 
By Colin's cottage lies his game, 
If Colin's Jenny be at hame. 

My lady's goiU7i, fyc. 

My lady's white, my lady's red. 
And kith and kin o' Cassillis' blude, 
But her ten-pund lands o' tocher guid, 
Were a' the charms his lordship lo'ed. 
My lady's gown, $c. 

Out o'er yon moor, out o'er yon moss, 
Whare gor-cocks thro' the heather pass, 
There wons auld Colin's bonnie lass, 
A lily in a wilderness. 

My lady's gown, fyc. 

Sae sweetly move her genty limbs, 
Like music notes o' lover's hymns ; 
The diamond dew in her een sae blue, 
Where laughing love sae wanton swims. 
My lady's gown, fyc. 

My lady's dink, my lady's drest, 
The flower and fancy o' the west ; 
But the lassie that a man lo'es best, 
O that's the lass to make him blest. 
My ladifs gown, fyc. 



WEE WILLIE GRAY 

Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet ; 
Peel a willow-wand to be him boots and jacket : 
The rose upon th« brier will be him trouse and 
doublet, [doublet. 

The rose upon the brier will be him trouse and 



BURNS' POEMS. 429 

Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet ; 
Twice a lily flower will be in his sark and cravat: 
Feathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet, 
Feathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet. 



THE BELLES OF MAUOHLINE. 
Tune — •* Bonnie Dundee." 

Is Mauchline there dwells six proper youmr 
belles, 

The pride of the place and its neighborhood a 1 , 
Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess, 

In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a': 
Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine, 

Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is 

braw ; ' [ton, 

There's beauty and fortune to get wi 1 Miss Nor- 

But Armour 's the jewel for me o 1 them a'. 



COULD AUGHT OF SONG-. 

Could aught of song declare my pains, 
Could artful numbers move thee. 

The muse should tell, in labor'd strains, 

O Mary, how I love thee. 

They who but feign a wounded heart, 
May teach the lyre to languish ; 

But what avails the pride of art, 
When wastes the soul with anguish. 

Then let the sudden bursting sigh 
The heart-felt pang discover ; 

And m the keen, yet tender eye, 
O read th 1 imploring lover. 

For well I know thy gentle mind 
Disdains art's gay disguising ; 



430 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

Beyond what fancy e'er refin'd, 
The voice of nature prizing. 



O GUID ALE OOMES. 

guid ale comes, and guid ale goe» 
Guid ale gars me sell my hose, 

Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon, 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 

1 had sax owsen in a pleugh, 
They drew a 1 weel enough, 

I selPd them a' just ane by ane ; 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 

Guid ale hauds me bare and busy, 
Gars me moop wi' the servant hizzie, 
Stand i' the stool when I hae done, 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 
O guid ale comes and guid ale goes, 
Guid ale gars me sell my hose, 
Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon ; 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 



O LEAVE NOVELS. 
O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles, 

Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel ; 
Such witching books, are baited hooks 

For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel. 
Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, 

They make your youthful fancies ree, 
They heat your brains, and fire your vein*., 

Anil then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel, 



BURNS' POEMS. 431 

Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung : 

A heart that warmly seems to feel ; 
That feeling heart but acts a part, 

'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel. 
The frank address, the soft caress, 

Are worse than poisoned darts of steel; 
The frank address, and politesse, 

Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel. 



C AY MY WIFE SHE DANG MB 

ay my wife she dang me, 

An 1 aft my wife she ba?tg'd me ; 

Ify? gie a woman a' her will, 

Quid faith she'll soon o^ergang ye. 
On peace and rest my mind was bent, 

And fool I was, I marry 'd ; 
But never honest man's intent 

As cursedly miscarry'd. 
ay my wife, $c. 
Some sairie comfort still at last, 

When a' thir days are done, man, 
My pains o' hell on earth is past, 

I'm sure o' bliss aboon, man. 
ay my wife, $c. 



THE DETJKS DANG O'ER MY DADDIE- 

The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout, 
The deuks dang o'er my daddie, O ! 

The fient ma care, quo' the feirie auld wife# 
He was but a paidlin body, O ! 

He paidles out, and he paidles in, 
Air he paidles late and earlie, O ; 



432 BURNS' POEMS. 

This seven lang years I hae lien by his side 
An' he is but a fusionless carlie, O. 

O haud your tongue, my feirie auld wife, 

O haud your tongue now, Nansie, O J 
I've seen the day, and sae hae ye, 

Ye wadna been sae donsie, O : 
I've seen the day ye butter' d my brose, 

And cuddl'd me late and earlie, O ; 
But downa do's come o'er me now, 

And, oh, I find it sairly, O ' 



DELIA. 



Fair the face of orient day, 
Fair the tints of op'ning rose ; 
But fairer still my Delia dawns, 
More lovely far her beauty blows. 

Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay, 
Sweet the tinkling till to hear ; 
But, Delia, more delightful still, 
Steal thine accents on mine ear. 

The flower-enamor'd busy bee, 
The rosy banquet loves to sip ; 
Sweet thft streamlet's limpid lapse 
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip. 

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips 

Let me, no vagrant insect, rove ! 

O let me steal one liquid kiss, 

For oh ! my soul is parch'd with lov« ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 433 

ON A BANK OF FLOWERS. 

On a bank of flowers one summer's day, 

For summer lightly dress'd, 
The youthful, blooming Nelly lay, 

With love and sleep oppress'd ; 
W he n Willy, wand'ring thro' the wood, 

Who for her favor oft had su'd, 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, ho fear'd, he blush'd, 

And trembled where he stood. 

Her closed eyes, like weapons sheath'd, 

Were seal'd in soft repose, 
Her lips still as they fragrant breath'd, 

It richer dy'd the rose. 
The springing, lilies sweetly press'd, 

Wild wanton kiss'd her rival breast ; 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, 

rlis bosom ill at rest. 

Her robes, light waving in the breeze, 

Her tender limbs embrace, 
Her lovely form, her native ease, 

All harmony and grace. 
Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, 

A flattering, ardent kiss he stole: 
He gay. d, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd 

And sigh'd his very soul. 

As flies the partridge from the brake, 

On fear inspired wings ; 
So Nelly startling, half awake, 

Away affrighted springs. 
But Willy follow'd as he should, 

He overtook her in the wood, 
lie vow'd, he pray'd, he found the maid 

forgiving alJ and good. 
* r 28 



434 BURNS' POEMS. 

EVAN BANKS. 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires 
The sun from India's shore retires ; 
To Evan's banks with temperate ray, 
Home of my youth, it leads the day. 
Oh ! banks to me forever dear; 
Oh ! stream whose murmurs still I hecr! 
All, all my hopes of bliss reside, 
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde. 

And she, in simple beauty drest, 
Whose image lives within my breast ; 
Who trembling heard my parting sigh, 
And long pursued me with her eye •' 
Does she with heart, unchang'd as mine, 
Oft in thy vocal bowers recline ? 
Or where yon grot o'erhangs the tide, 
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde. 

Ye lofty banks that Evan bound ! 
Ye lavish woods that wave around, 
And o'er the stream your shadows throw, 
Which sweetly winds so far belovy ; 
What secret charm to mem'ry brings, 
All that on Evan's border springs i 
Sweet banks ! ye bloom by Mary's side ; 
Blest stream! she views thee haste to Clyde. 

Can all the wealth of India's coast 
Atone for years in absence lost ? 
Return, ye moments of delight, 
With richer treasure bless my sight ! 
Swift from this desert let me part, 
And fly to meet a kindred heart ! 
Nor more may aught my steps divide 
From that dear stream which flows to Clyde. 



BURNS' POEMS. 435 

THE FIVE OARLINS. 

AN ELECTION BALLAD. 
Tune—" Chevy Chace." 

There were five Carlins in the south, 

They fell upon a scheme, 
To send a lad to Lon'on town 

To bring us tidings hame. 

Not only bring us tidings hame, 

But do our errands there, 
And aiblins gowd and honor baith 

Might be that laddie's share. 

There was Maggie by the banks o' Nith,* 

A dame wi' pride enough ; 
And Marjorie o' the monie Loch,t 

A Carlin auld an' teugh. 

And blinkin Bess o' Annandale.t 

That dwells near Solway side, 
And whisky Jean, that took her gill$ 

In Galloway so wide. 

And auld black Joan frae Creighton peel,!i 

C" gipsy kith an' kin, 
Five weightier Carlins were na found, 

The south kintra within. 

To send a lad to Lon'on town, 

They met upon a day, 
And monie a Knight and monie a Laird 

That errand fain would gae. 

O ! monie a Knight and monie a Laird 

This errand fain would gae ; 
But nae ane could their fancy please, 

! ne'er a ane but twae. 
•Dumfries fLochmaben. J Annan. 

i Kirkcudbright y Sanquhar 



436 BURNS' POEMSj. 

The first ane was a belted Knight, 

Bred o' a border band, 
An' he wad gae to Lon'on town, 

Might nae man him withstand. 

And he wad do their errands weel, 

And meikle he wad say, 
And ilka ane at Lon'on court, 

Wad bid to him guid day. 

Then niest came in a sodger youth, 
And spak wi' modest grace, 

An' he wad gae to Lon'on town, 
If sae their pleasure was. 

He wad na hecht them courtly gift, 
Nor meikle speech pretend ; 

But he wad hecht an honest heart 
Wad ne'er desert his friend. 

Now whom to choose and whom refuse. 

To strife thae Carlins fell ; 
For some had gentle folks to please, 

And some wad please themsel. 

Then out spak mim-mou'd Meg o' Nith, 

An' she spak out wi' pride, 
An' she wad send the sodger youth, 

Whatever might betide. 

For the auld guidman o' Lon'on court 

She did not care a pin, 
But she wad send the sodger youth 

To greet his eldest son. 

Then up sprang Bess o' Annandale : 

A deadly aith she's ta'en, 
That she wad vote the border Knight, 

Tho' she should vote her lane. 



BURNS' POEMS. 437 

For far off fowls hae feathers fair, 

An' fools o' change are fain : 
But I hae tried the border Knight, 

I'll try him yet again. 

Says auld black Joan frae Creighton peel, 

A Carlin stout and grim, 
The auld guidman or young guidman, 

For me to sink or swim ! 

For fools may prate o' right and wrang, 
While knaves laugh them to scorn ; 

But the sodger's friends hae blawn the beat, 
Sae he shall bear the horn. 

Then whisky Jean spak o'er her drink, 

Ye weel ken, kimmers a', 
The auld guid man o' Lon'on court, 

His back's been at the wa\ 

And monie a friend that kiss'd his caup, 

Is now a frammit wight ; 
But it's ne'er sae wi' whisky Jean, 

We'll send the border Knight. 

Then slow rose Majorie o' the Lochs, 

And wrinkled was her brow ; 
Her ancient weed was russet gray, 

Her auld Scots heart was true. 

There's some great folks set light by me 

I set as light by them ; 
But I will send to Lon'on town 

Wha I lo'e best at harne. 

So how this weighty plea will end, 

Nae mortal wight ean tell ; 
G-d grant the King and ilka man 

May look weel to himsel. 



438 BURNS' POEMS. 

THE LASS THAT MADETHB BED 
TO ME. 

When January winds were blawing cauld, 

As to the north I bent my way, 
The mirksome night did me enfauld, 

I kenn'd na whare to lodge till day; 
By my guid luck a lass I met, 

Just in the middle of my care, 
And kindly she did me invite, 

To walk into a chamber fair. 
I bow'd fu 1 low unto this maid, 

And thank'd her for her courtesie ; 
I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, 

And bade her make a- bed for me : 
She made the bed both large and wide, 

Wi' twa white hands she spread it down ; 
She put the cup to her rosy lips, [sound. " 

And drank, "Young man, now sleep ye 

She snafch'd the candle in her hand, 

And fiae my chamber went wi 1 speed : 
But I calTd her quickly back again, 

To lay some mair below my head, 
A cod she laid below my head, 

And served me with due respect; 
And to salute her with a kiss, 

I put my arms about her neck. 
*' Haud aff your hands, young man," says she, 

" And dinna sae uncivil be ; 
Gif ye hae ony love for me, 

O wrang na my virginity !" 
Her hair was like the links o' gowd, 

Her teeth were like the ivory, 
Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
Her bosom was the driven snaw, 

Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see, 



BURNS' POEMS. 439 

Her limbs the polish'd marble stane, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again, 

And ay she wistna what to say ; 
I laid her 'tween me and the wa' ; 

The lassie thought na lang till day. 
Upon the morrow, when we raise, 

I thank'd her for her courtesie ; 
But ay she brush' d, and ay she sigh'd, 

And said, ''Alas ! ye've ruin'd me." 
I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne, 

While the tear stood twinkling in her a'e, 
I said, my lassie, dinna cry, 

For ye ay shall mak the bed to me." 
She took her mither's Holland sheets, 

And made them a 1 in sarks to me ; 
Blithe and merry may she be, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
The bonnie lass made the bed to me, 

The braw lass made the bed to me ; 
1 \ ] U ie,er for f et ' Jil1 the day that I die, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 



THE KIRK' S ALARM.* 
A SATIRE. 

Orthodox, orthodox, wha believe in John 
Knox, 

Let me sound an alarm to your conscience ; 
There's a heretic blast, has been blawn in the 
wast, 

That what is no sense must be nonsense. 
Dr. Mac.t Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a 

To strike evil doers wi' terror ; [rack, 

*This Poem was written a short time after the pub- 
lication of Dr. M'Gill's Essay. f Dr. WGili. 



440 BURNS' POEMS. 

To join faith and sense upon ony pretence, 
Is heretic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad I de- 
clare, 

To meddle wi 1 mischief a-brewing ; 
Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief, 

And orator Bob * is it's ruin. 

D'rymple mild, t D'rymple mild, tho' youi 
heart's like a child, 

And your life like the new driven snaw, [ye, 
Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have 

For preaching that's three's ane and twa. 

Rumble John,t Rumble John, mount the steps 
wi a groan, 

Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; [addle, 
Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstone like 

And roar every note of the damn'd. 

Simper James, $ Simper James, leave the fair 
Killie dames, 

There's a holier chase in your view ; [lead, 
I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon 

For puppies like you there's but few. 

Singet SawnyJ Singet Sawny, are ye hording 
the penny, 

Unconscious what evils await ? 
Wi' a jump, yell ; and howl, alarm every soul, 

For the foul thief is just at your gate. 

Daddy Auld.V Daddy Auld, there's a tod in 
the fauld, 

A tod meikle waur than the Clerk ; [death, 
Tho' ye can do little skaith, ye'll be in at the 

And gif you canna bite, ye may bark. 

• R 1 A— k— n. t D— m- le. J Mr. R— ss— 11. 

| Mr. M'K— y. Mr. M y U Mr. A— d. 



BURNS' POKMS. 441 

Davie Bluster,* Davie Bluster, if for a saint ye 
do muster, 

The corps-is no nice of recruits : [boast, 

Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might 

It the ass was the king of the brutes. 

Jamie Groose.t Jamie Groose, ye hae made 
but toom roose, 

In hunting the wicked Lieutenant ; [ark 
But the Doctor's your mark, for the L— d's haly 

lie has cooper'd and caw'd a vvrang pin in't. 

Poet Willie,! Poet Willie, gie the Doctor a 
volley, 

Wi' your liberty's chain and your wit : 
U er Pegasus's side ye ne'er lade a stride, 

* e but smelt, man, the place where he s— t. 

Andro GouM Andro Gouk, ye may slander 
the book, 
And the book nane the waur let me tell ye 1 
Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and 



W]o\ 



And ye'll hae a calf head o' sma' value. 
Barr Steenie.ll Barr Steenie, what mean ye? 
what mean ye ? 
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 
%x?? y i so ™ e P ret ence to havins and sense 
Wi the people wha ken ye nae better. 
Irvine Slide IT Irvine Slide, wi' your turkey 
cock pride, 
Of manhood but sma' is your share ; 
If eve the figure, 'tis true, even your faes will 
allow, [mair 

And your friends they dare grant you nae 

8 P-b- -s of A-r j Dr. A. M-ll. || Mr 

B n Y— or of r -, » T _ » "" 



otG 



2Q 



-n. 



ofB-_r. "uiir.S-J^V 



442 BURNS' P0EM8. 

Muirland Jock,* Muirland Jock, when the 
L — d makes a rock 

To crush common sense for her sins, [fil 
If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal so 

To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 

Holy Will.t Holy Will, there was wit i' you* 
skull, 

When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor ; 
The timmer is scant, whenyeVe ta'en for asant, 

Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, your sp'ritual guns, 
Ammunition you never can need ; [enough, 

Your hearts are the stuff, will be powther 
And your skulls are the storehouse o 1 lead. 

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi' your priest-skelp 
ing turns, 

Why desert ye your auld native shire ? 
Your muse is a gipsie, e'en tho' she were tipsie, 

She cou'd ca' us nae waur than we are. 



THE TWA HERDS. 

O a' ye pious, godly flocks, 
Well fed on pastures orthodox, 
Wha now will keep you frae the fox, 

Or worrying tykes f 
Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks, 
About the dykes f 

The twa best herds in a 1 the wast, 
That e'er gae gospel horn a blast, 
These five and twenty summers past, 
O ! dool to tell, 

• Mr S— — d t An Elder in M 



BURNS' POEMS. 443 

Hae had a bitter black out-cast, 

Atween themsel. 

O, M y, man, and wordy R— — II, 

How could you raise so vile a bustle, 
Ye'li see how new-light herds will whistle, 

And think it fine ! 
The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle, 

Sin' I hae min'. 

O, Sirs! whae'er wad hae expeckit, 

Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, 

Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit, 

To wear the plaid, 

But by the brutes themselves eleckit, 

To be their guide. 

What flock wi' M y's flock could rank, 

Sae hale and hearty every shank, 
Nae poison'd soor Arminian stank, 

He let them taste, 
Frae Calvin's well, ay clear, they drank, 

O sic a feast ! 

The thummart, wil'-cat, brock and tod, 
Weel kenn'd his voice thro' a' the wood, 
He smell'd their ilka hole and road, 
Baith out and in, 
And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, 
And sell their skin. 

What herd like R 11 tell'd his tale f 

His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, 
He kenn'd the Lord's sheep ilka tail. 

O'er a' the height, 
And saw gin they were sick or hale, 
At the first sight. 

He fine a mangy sheep, could scrub, 
Or nobly fling the* gospel club, 



444 BURNS' POEMS. 

And new-light herds could nicely drub, 
Or pay their skin, 

Could shake them o'er the burning dub ; 
Or heave them in. 

Sic twa — ! do I live to see't— 
Sic famous twa should disagreet, 
An' names, like villain, hypocrite, 

Ilk ither gi'en, 
While new-light herds wi' laughin spite, 

Say neither' s lien' ! 

A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld, 

There's D— -n, deep, and P s, shaul 

But chiefly thou, apostle A — d, 

We trust in thee, 
That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld, 

Till they agree. 

Consider, Sirs, how we're beset, 
There's scarce a new herd that we get, 
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set, 

I winna name, 

I hope frae heav'n to see them yet 

In fiery flame. 

D e has been lang our fae, 

M' 11 has wrought us meikle wae, 

And that curs'd rascal ca'd M' e, 

And baith the S s, 

That aft hae made us black and blae, 

Wi' vengefu' paws. 

Auld W— — w lang has hatch'd mischief, 
We thought ay death wad bring relief, 
But he has gotten, to our grief, 

Arte to succeed him, 
A chiel wha'll soundly buff our beef ; 

I meikle dread him. 



BURNS' POEMS. 443 

And mony a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain would openly rebel, 
Forby turn- coats among oursel, 

There S h for ane, 

I doubt he's but a gray nick quill, 

And that ve'll fin\ 

O ! a' ye flocks, o'er a' the hills, 
By mosses, meadows, moors and fells, 
Come join your counsel and your skills, 

To cowe the lairds, 
And get the brutes the power themselves, 

To choose their herds. 

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, 
And Learning, in a woody dance, 
And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, 

That bites sae sair, 
Be banish'd o'er the sea to France : 

Let him bark there. 

Then Shaw's and DVymple's eloquence, 

M' -ll's close, nervous excellence, 

M'Q 's pathetic, manly sense, 

And guid M' h, 

Wi' S th, wha thro' the heart can glance, 

May a' pack aff. 



EPISTLE FROM A TAILOR 

TO 

ROBERT BURNS. 

What waefu' news is this I hear, 
Frae greeting I can scarce forbear, 
Folks tell me, ye're gawn aff this year, 
Out o'ei the sea, 



446 BURNS' POEMS. 

And lasses wham ye lo'e sae dear 

Will greet for thee 

Weel wad I like, war ye to slay, 
But, Robin, since ye will away, 
1 hae a word yet mair to say, 

And maybe twa ; 
May he protect us night an' day, 

That made us a'. 

Whaur thou art gaun, keep mind frae me, 
Seek him to bear thee companie, 
And, Robin, whan ye come to die, 

Ye'll won aboon, 
An' live at peace an' unity 

Ayont the moon. 

Some tell me, Rab, ye dinna fear 
To get a wean, an' curse an 1 swear, 
I'm unco wae, my lad, to hear 

O' sic a trade, 
Cou'd I persuade ye to forbear, 

I wad be glad. 

Fu 1 weel ye ken ye'll gang to hell, 
Gin ye persist in doing ill — 
Waes me: ye're hurlin down the hill 

Withouten dread, 
An' ye'll get leave to swear your fill 

After ye're dead. 

There walth o' women ye'll get near, 
But gettin weans ye will forbear, 
Ye'll never say, my bonnie dear, 

Come, gie's a kiss — 
Nae kissing there — ye'll grin an' sneer, 

An' ither hiss. 

O Rab ! lay by thy foolish tricks, 
An' steer nae mair the female sex, 



BURNS' POEMS. 447 

Or some day ye' 11 come through the pricks, 
An 1 that ye' 11 see ; 

Ye'll find hard living wi' Auld Nicks; 
I'm wae for thee. 

But what's this comes wi' sic a knell, 
Amaist as loud as ony bell ? 
While it does mak my conscience tell 

Me what is true, 
I'm but a ragget cowt mysel, 

Owre sib to you! 

We're owre like those wha think it fit, 
To stuff their noddles fu' o' wit, 
An' yet content in darkness sit, 

Wha shun the light, 
To let them see down to the pit, 

That lang, dark night. 

But farewell, Rab, I maun awa', 
May he that made us, keep us a', 
For that would be a dreadful' fa', 

And hurt us sair, 
Lad, ye wad never mend ava, 

Sae, Rab, tak care. 






THE ANSWER. 

What ails ye now, ye lousy b — h, 
To thresh my back at sic a pitch ? 
Losh, man ! hae mercy wi' your natch, 
Your bodkin's bauld, 
I did na suffer ha'f sae much, 

• Fra Daddie Auld. 

What tho* at times when I grow crouse, 
[ gie their wames a random pouse, 



448 SURNS 1 POEMS. 

Is that enough for you to souse, 

Your servant sae f 

Gae mind your seam, ye prick «he louse, 
An' jag the flae. 

King David o 1 poetic brief, 
Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief 
As fill'd his after life wi' grief 

An' bloody rants, 
An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief 

O 1 lang syne saunts. 

And maybe, Tarn, for a 1 my cants, 
My wicked rhymes, an 1 drucken rants, 
I'll gie auld cloven Clouty's haunts, 

An unco slip yet, 
An 1 snugly sit amang the saunts 

At Davie's hip yet. 

But fegs, the Session says I maun 
Gae fa' upo' anither plan, 
Than garran lassies cowp the cran 

Clean heels owre body, 
And sairly thole their mither's ban, 

Afore the howdy. 

This leads me on, to tell for sport, 
How much I did with the Session sort — 
Auld Clinkum at the Inner port 

Cry'd three times. " Robin 
Come hither lad, an answer for't, 

Ye're blam'd for jobbin." 

Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on, 
An 1 snoov'd awa' before the Session — 
I made an open, fair comfession, , 

I scorn 'd to lie : 
An' syne Mess John, beyond expression, 

Fell foul o' me. 



BURNS' POEMS. 449 

A fornicator lown he call'd me, 
An' said my fau't frae bliss expell'd me ; 
I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me, 

" But what the matter?" 
Quo' I, " I fear, unless ye geld me, 

I'll ne'er be better." 

Tr". Ge,d you '" < l uo ' he ' " and what for no! 
If that your right hand, leg or toe, 
Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe, 

You shou'd remember 
To cut it aff, an' what for no 

Your dearest member?" 

" Na, na," quo' I, " I'm not for that, 
Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't, 
I'd rather suffer for my fau't, 

A hearty flewit, 
As sair owre hip as ye can draw't ! 

Tho' I should rue it. 

Or gin ye like to end the bother, 
To please us a', I've just ae ither, 
When next wi' yon lass I forgather, 
tmi r i , Whate'er betide it, 

I II frankly gie her't a' thegither, 

An' let her guide it." 

But, Sir, this pleas'd them warst ava, 
An' therefore, Tarn, when that I saw, 
I said, " Guid night," and cam awa\ 
_ And left the Session , 

I saw they were resolved a' 

On my oppression. 
29 



450 BURNS' P0EM8. 

LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE, 

KILMARNOCK, 

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. 

O Goudie ! terror o' the Whigs, 
Dread o' black coats and rev'rend wigs, 
Soor Bigotry, on her last legs. 

Girnin looks back, 
Wishin the ten Egyptian plagues 

Wad seize you quick. 

Poor gapin, glownn Superstition, 
Waes me ! she's in a sad condition ; 
Fly, bring Black Jock, her state physician, 

To see her w — ter ; 
Alas ! there's ground o' great suspicion 

She'll ne'er get better. 

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, 
But now she's got an unco ripple, 
Haste, gie her name up i* the chapel, 

Nigh unto death; 
See how she fetches at the thrapple, 

An' gasps for breath. 

Enthusiasm's past redemption, 
Gaen in a galloping consumption, 
Not a' the quacks wi' a' their gumption, 

Will ever mend her, 
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption, 

Death will soon end her 

'Tis you and Taylor* are the chief 
Wha are to blame for this mischief: 
But gin the L — d's ain folks gat leave, 

A toom tar barrel 
And twa red peats wad send relief, 

An' end the quarrel. 

• Dr Taylor of Norwich. 



BURNS' POEMS. 451 

LETTER TO J S T T GL-NO-R 

Auld comrade dear, and brither sinner, 
How's a' the folk about Gl — nc — r, 
How do you this blae eastlin wind, 
That's like to blaw a body blind : 
For me, my faculties are frozen, 
My dearest member nearly dozen'd : 
I've sent you here by Johnie Simpson, 
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on ; 
Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling, 
An' Reid, to common sense appealing, 
Philosophers have fought an' wrangled, 
An' meikle Greek an' Latin mangled, 
Till wi' their logic jargon tir'd, 
An' in the depth of science mir'd, 
To common sense they now appeal, 
What wives an' wabsters see an' feel ; 
But hark ye, friend, I charge you strictly, 
Peruse them an' return them quickly ; 
For now I'm grown sae cursed douse, 
I pray an' ponder butt the house, 
My shins, my lane, I there set roastin, 
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, and Boston ; 
Till by an' by, if I haud on, 
I'll grunt a real Gospel groan: 
Already I begin to try it, 
To cast my een up like a pyet, 
When by the gun she tumbles o'er, 
Flutt'ring an' gasping in her gore ; 
Sae shortly you shall see me bright, 
A burning an' a shining light. 

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, 
The ace an' wale of honest men ; 
When bending down with auld gray hairs 
Beneath the load of years and cares, 
May he who made him, still support him. 
An views beyond the grave coiniort him , 



452 BURNS' POEMS. 

His worthy fam'ly far and near, 
God bless them a' wi' grace and gear. 



ON THE DEATH OP 

SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR 

The lamp of day with ill-presaging glare, 
Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave 

Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening 
air, 
And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. 

Lone as I wander' d by each cliff and dell, 
Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train ;* 

Or mus'd where limpid streams, once hallow'd, 
well.t 
Or moldering ruins mark the sacred fane.t 

Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling 

rocks, [sky; 

The clouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the starry 

The groaning trees untimely shed their locke, 

And shooting meteors caught the startling 

eye. 

The paly moon rose in the livid east, 
And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form, 

In weeds of wo, that frantic beat her breast, 
And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm. 

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 
'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd : 

* The King's Park, at Holy rood-house. 

f St Anthony's Well. jSt. Anthony's Chapel. 



BURNS' POEMS. 453 

tier form majestic droop'd in pensive wo, 
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. 

Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war ; 

Reclin'd that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd, 
That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, 

And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the 
world. — 

44 My patriot son fills an untimely grave !" 
With accents wild and lifted arms she cried ; 

" Low lies the hand that oft was stretch' d to 

save, [pride ! 

Low hes the heart that swell'd with honest 

" A weeping country joins a widow's tears, 
The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry; 

The drooping arts surround their patron's bier, 
And grateful science heaves the heartfelt 
sigh — 

" I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; 

I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow; 
But ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 

Relentless fate has laid this guardian low.— 

" My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, 
While empty greatness saves a worthless 
name ? 

No ; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue, 
And future ages hear his growing fame. 

"And I will join a mother's tender cares, 
Thro' future times to make his virtues last, 

That distant years may boast of other Blairs'*— 
She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast. 



THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 

A CANTATA. 
RECITATIVO. 

When lyart leaves bestrew the yird, 
Or, wavering like the bauckie* bird, 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast : 
When hailstones drive wi' bitter skyte, 
And infant frost begin to bite, 

In hoary cranreugh drest ; 
Ae night at e'en, a merry core 

O' randie-gangrel bodies, 
In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore, 
To drink their ora duddies : 
Wi 1 quaffing and laughing, 

They ranted and they sang ; 
Wi' jumping and thumping 
The vera girdle rang. 

First, niest the fire, in auld red rags, 
Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, 

And knapsack a' in order ; 
His doxy lay within his arm, 
Wi 1 usquebae and blankets warm, 

She blinket on her sodger ; 
And aye he gies the tousie drab 

The tither skelpin kiss v 
While she held up her greedy gab, 
Just like an a'mous dish ; 

Ilk smack still, did crack st'U, 

Just like a cadger's whup, 
Then staggering, and swaggering, 
He roar'd this ditty up — 
•The old Scottish name for the Bat. 

454 



BURNS' POEMS. 455 

AIR. 
Tune—" Soldier's Joy." 

I am a son of Mars, who have been in many 

wars, 
\ nd show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; 
I his here was for a wench, and that other in a 

trench, 
When welcoming the French at the sound of 

the drum. Lai de daudle, $c. 

My 'prenticeship I past where my leader breath'd 
his last, [of Abram ; 

When the bloody die was cast on the heights 

I serv'd out my trade where the gallant game 
was play'd, 

And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the 
drum. Lai de daudle, $c. 

I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating 

batt'ries, 
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb; 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to 

head me, 
I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of the 

drum. Lai de daudle, $c. 

And now, tho 1 I must beg, with a wooden arm 

and leg, 
And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, 
I'm as happy with ray wallet, my bottle, and 

my callet, 
As when I us'd in scarlet to follow the drum. 
Lai de daudle, fa. 

What tho' with hoary locks, I must stand the 

windy shocks, [a home ; 

Beneath the woods and rocks, oftentimes for 



45G BURNS' POEMS. 

When the tother bag I sell, and the tother hot 
tie tell, [drum. 

I could meet a troop of h-11, at the sound of the 
Lal de daudle, (J-c. 



RECITATIVO. 

He ended ; and the kebars sheuk 

Aboon the chorus roar ; 
While frighted rattans backward leuk, 

And seek the benmost bore : 

A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, 

He skirl'd out encore ! 
But up arose the martial's chuck, ' 

And laid the loud uproar. 



Tune—" Soldier Laddie" 

I once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, 
And still my delight is in proper young men ; 
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie, 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 

Si?ig lal de lal, $c. 

The first of my lovers was a swaggering blade, 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, 
Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 
Si?ig lal de lal, <$-c. 

But the goodly old chaplain left him in the lurch, 
So the 8 word I forsook for the sake of the 

church ; 
He ventur'd the soul, I risked the body, 
'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 
Si?ig lal de lal, ($•/?- 



BURNS' POEMS. 457 

Full soon I grew sick of the sanctified sot, 
J he regiment at large for a husband I got ; 
b rnm the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready, 
I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 

Sing lal de lal, fyc. 
But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, 
Till 1 met my old boy at a Cunningham fair, 
His rags regimental they flutter'd sae gaudy, 
My heart it rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. 

Sing lal de lal, (J-c. 

And now I have liv'd — I know not how long, 

And still I can join in a cup or a song ; 

But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass 

steady, 
Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 
Sing lal de lal, <$-c. 

REC1TATIVO. 

Poor Merry Andrew, in the neuk, 
Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie ; 

They mind't na what the chorus took, 
Between themselves they were sae bizzy j 

At length, wi' drink an' courting dizzy, 

r ^ He stoiter'd up and made a face ; 

Then turn'd and laid a smack on Grizzy, 
Syne tun'd his pipes wi' grave grimace. 

AIR. 

Tune—" Auld Sir Symon." 

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, 
Sir Knave is a fool in a session ; 

He's there but a 'prentice I trow, 
But I am a fool by profession. 

My grannie she bought me a beuL 

And I held awa to the school ; 
2rv 



458 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

I fear I my talent misteuk ; 
But what will ye hae of a fool? 

For drink I would venture my neck ; 

A hizzie's the half o 1 my craft ; 
But what could ye other expect 

Of ane that's avowedly daft. 

I ance was ty'd up like a stirk, 
For civilly swearing and quaffing ; 

I ance was abus'd i 1 the kirk, 
For towzling a lass i' my daffin. 

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, 
Let naebody name wi' a jeer ; 

There's ev'n, I'm tauld, i' the court, 
A tumbler ca'd the Premier. 

Observ'd ye, yon reverend lad 
Maks faces to tickle the mob ; 

He rails at our mountebank squad, 
It 's rivalship just i' the job. 

And now my conclusion I'll tell, 
For faith I'm confoundedly dry, 

The chiel that's a fool for himsel', 
Gude L — d, is far dafter than I. 



RECITATIVO. 

Then niest out spak a raucle carlin, 
Wha kent fu' weel to deck the sterlin ; 
For monie a pursie she had hooked, 
And had in monie a well been ducket ; 
Her dove had been a Highland laddie, 
But weary fa' the waefu' woodie ! 
Wi' sighs and sabs, she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highlandman. 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 459 

AIR. 
TuNK— r ,; O an' ye were dead, guidinan." 

A highland lad my love was born, 
The Lawlan' laws he held in scorn ; 
But he still was faithfir to his clan, 
My gallant, braw John Highlandman. 

CHORUS. 

Sing hey, my braw John Highlandman, 
Sing ho, my braw John Highlandman; 
There's not a lad in all the Ian'' 
Was match for my John Highlandman. 

With his philibeg and tartan plaid, 
And guid claymore down by his side, 
The ladies' hearts he did trepan, 
My gallant, braw John Highlandman. 
Sing hey, §-c. 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
And liv'd like lords and ladies gay ; 
For a Lallan face he feared nane, 
My gallant, braw John Highlandman. 
Sing hey, £e. 

They banish'd him beyond the sea, 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 

Sing hey, $e. 

But oh ! they catch'd him at the last, 
And bound him in a dungeon fast ; 
My curse upon them every one, 
They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman. 
Sing hey, <$-c. 

And now a widow, I must mourn 
The pleasure that will ne'er return ; 



460 BURNS' POEMS. 

No comfort but a hearty can, 
When I think on John Highlandman. 
Sing hey, $c. 

REOITATIVO. 

A pigmy Scraper, wi 1 his fiddle, 
Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle, 
Her strappin limb and gaucy middle 

(He reach'd nae higher,) 
Had hol't his heartie like a riddle, 

And blawn't on fire. 

Wi' hand on haunch, and upward e'e, 
He croon'd his gamut ane, twa, three, 
Then, in an Arioso key, 

The wee Apollo 
Set aff, wi' Allegretto glee, 

His giga solo. 

AIR. 
Tune— " Whistle o'er the lave oV 

Let me ryke up to dight that tear, 
And go wi 1 me and be my dear, 
And then your every care and fear 
May whistle o'er the lave o 1 t. 

CHORUS. 
1 am a fiddler to my trade, 
And a' the tunes that e'er 1 played, 
The sweetest still to wife or maid, 
Was whistle o'er the lave oH. 

At kirns and weddings we'se be there, 
And oh ! sae nicely's we will fare ; 
We'll bouse about, till Daddie Care 
Sings whistle o'er the lave o't. 

lam, (J-c. 



BURNS' POEMS. 461 

Sae merrily's the banes we'll pyke, 
And sun oursels about the dyke, 
And at Our leisure, when we like, 
We'll whistle o'er the lave o't. 

J am, (J-c. 

But bless me wi' your heav'n o 1 charms, 
And while I kittle hair on thairms, 
Hunger, cauld., and a' sic harms, 
May whistle o'er the lave o't. 

lam, $c. 

RECITATIVO. 

Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird 

As weel as poor Gut -scraper; 
He taks the fiddler by the beard. 

And draws a roosty rapier- 
He swoor, by a' was swearing worth, 

To spit him like a pliver. 
Unless he wad from that time forth 

Relinquish her forever. 

Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle-dee 

Upon his hunkers bended, 
And pray'd for grace, wi' ruefu' face, 

And sae the quarrel ended. 
But tho' his little heart did grieve 

When round the tinkler prest her, 
He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve, 

When thus the Caird address'd her : 



AIR. 
Tcne— " Clout the Cauldron." 

My bonnie lass, I work in brass, 

A tinkler is my station ; 
I've travel'd round all Christian ground, 

In this my occupation ; 



462 BURNS' POEMS. 

I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd 

In many a noble squadron ; 
But vain they search'd, when off I march'd 

To go and clout the cauldron. 

V ve taen the gold, $-c. 

Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, 

Wi' a' his noise and caprin, 
And tak a share wi 1 those that bear 

The budget and the apron ; 
And by that stowp, my faith and houp, 

And by that dear Kilbadgie,* 
If e'er ye want, or meet wi 1 scant, 
May I ne'er want my craigie. 

And by that stoup, <$-c. 

RECITATIVO. 

The Caird prevail'd — th' unblushing fair 

In his embraces sunk, 
Partly wi 1 love o 1 ercome sae fair, 

And partly she was drunk. 
Sir Violina, with an air 

That show'd a man o' spunk, 
Wish'd unison between the pair, 

And made the bottle clunk 

To their health that night 

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft. 

That play'd the dame a shavie, 
The fiddler rak'd her fore and aft, 

Behint the chicken cavie. 
Her lord, a wight o 1 Homer's craft, 

Tho' limping wi' the spavie, 
He hirpl'd up, and lap like daft, 

And shor'd them Dainty Davie 
boot that night. 

• A peculiar sort of whfsky, So called ; a great fm- 
Tprite with Posie Nansie's clubs. 



burns' poems. 463 

He was a care defying blade 

As ever Bacchus listed. 
The-' Fortune sair upon him laid, 

His heart she ever miss'd it. 
He had nae wish, but — to be glad, 

Nor want — but when he thirsted ; 
He hated nought but — to be sad, 

And thus the Muse suggested 

His sang that night. 

AIE. 

Tune—" For a' that, and a' that" 

I am a bard of no regard, 

Wi' gentlefolks, and a* that: 
But Homer-like, the glowran byke, 

Frae town to town I draw that. 



For a' that , and a' that, 
And twice as meikle's a 1 that; 

I've lost but ane, I r ve twa? behin', 
l^ve wife enough, for a' that . 

I never drank the Muses' stank, 
Castalia's burn, and a' that ; 

But there it streams, and richly reams, 
My Helicon I ca' that. 

For a' that, $c. 

Great love I bear to a' the fair, 
Their humble slave, and a 1 that ; 

But lordly will, I hold it still 
A mortal sin to thraw that. 

For a' that, <J-c. 

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 
Wi' mutual love, and a' that ; 



464 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

But for how lang the flie may stang, 
Let inclination law that. 

For a 1 that, <$-c. 

Their tricks and craft hae put me daft, 
They've ta'en me in, and a' that ; 

But clear your decks, and " Here's the sex '.' 
I like the jade for a' that. 

For a' that, and a' that, 

And twice as meikle's a 1 that, 

My dearest bluid, to do them guid, 
They're welcome tilVt,for a' that. 



RECITATIVO. 

So sung the bard — and Nansie's wa's 
Shook with a thunder of applause, 

Re-echo'd from each mouth ; 
They toom'd their pocks, and pawn'd their duds, 
They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, 

To quench their lowan drouth. 

Then owre again the jovial thrang, 

The poet did request, 
To lowse his pack, and wale a sang, 
A ballad o' the best ; 
He, rising, rojoicing, 

Between his twa Deborahs, 
Looks round him, and found them 
Impatient for the chorus. 



AIR. 
Tune—" Jolly mortals, fill your glasses." 



See the smoking bowl before us, 
Mark our jovial ragged ring ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 465 

Round and round take up the chorus, 
And in raptures let us sing : 



A Jig for those by law protected I 
Liberty's a glorious feast ! 

Courts for cowards were erected, 
Churches built to please the priest. 

What is title ? what is treasure ? 

What is reputation's care ? 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

'Tis no matter, how or where ! 
A Jig, <$•<?. 

With the ready trick and fable, 
Round we wander all the day ; 

And at night, in barn or stable, 
Hug our doxies on the hay. 

-A Jig, <$•<?. 

Does the train-attended carriage 
Thro 1 the country lighter rove ? 

Does the sober bed of marriage 
Witness brighter scenes of love ? 
A Jig, <J-c. 

Life is all a variorum, 
We regard not how it goes j 

Let them cant about decorum 
Who have characters to lose. 

Afig, (J-c. 

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! 

Here's to all the wandering train ! 
Here's our ragged brats and callets ! 

One and all cry out, Amen ! 

as 30 Afig -* e - 



466 BURNS' POEMS. 

EXTEMPORE. 
April, 1782. 

why the deuce should I repine, 
And be an ill foreboder ? 

I'm twenty-three, and five feet nine — 
I'll go and be a sodger. 

1 gat some gear wi' meikle care, 
I held it weel thegither ; 

But now it's gane, and something mair,— 
I'll go and be a sodger. 



ADDITIONAL POEMS 

EXTRACTED FROM THE 

LATE EDITION OF BURNS' WORKS, 

EDITED BY 

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYEB. 

Thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell, 
Wha, as it pleases best thysel', 

Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell, 
A 1 for thy glory, 

And no for ony gude or ill 

They've done afore thee ' 

1 bless and praise thy matchless might, 
Whan thousands thou hast left in night, 
That I am here afore thy sight, 

For gifts and grace, 
A burnin' and a shinin' light 

To a' this place. 

What was I, or my generation, 
That I should get sic exaltation, 
I wha deserve sic just damnation, 

For broken laws, 
Five thousand years 'fore my creation. 

Thro 1 Adam's cause. 

When frae my mither's womb I fell, 
Thou might hae plunged me in hell, 
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, 

In burnin 1 lake, 
Whar damned devils roar and yell, 

Chain'd to a stake. 

467 



468 BURNS' POEMS, 

Vet f am here a chosen sample ; 

To show thy grace is great and ample ; 

I'm here a pillar in thy temple, 

Strong as a rock, 
A guide, a buckler, an example, 

To a' thy flock. 

But yet, O L — d ! confess I must, 
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust ; 
And sometimes, too, wi' warldly trust, 

Vile self gets in ; 
But thou remembers we are dust, 

DehTd in sin. 

Besides, I farther maun allow, 

Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times I trow — 

But L — d, that Friday I was fou, 

When I came near her, 
Or else, thou kens, thy servant true 

Wad ne'er hae steer'd he* 

Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn 
Beset thy servant e'en and morn, 
Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 

'Cause he's sae gifted; 
If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne, 

Until thou lift it. 

L — d, bless thy chosen in this place, 

For here thou hast a chosen race : 

But G— d confound their stubborn face, 

And blast their name, 
Wha bring thy elders to disgrace 

And public shame. 

L — d, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts, 
He drinks, and swears, and plays at carts, 
Yet has sae mony takin' arts, 

Wi' grit and sma\ 



BURNS' POEMS. 469 

Frae G — d's ain priests the people's hearts 
He steals awa. 

An 1 whan we chasten'd him therefor, 
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, 
As set the warld in a roar 

O 1 laughin' at us; — 
Curse thou his basket and his store, 

Kail and potatoes. 

L — d, hear my earnest cry and pray'r, 

Against the presbyt'ry of Ayr; 

Thy strong right hand, L — d, mak it bare 

Upo' their heads, 
L— d, weigh it down, and dinna spare, 

For their misdeeds. 

L — d my G— d, that glib-tongu'd Aiken, 

My very heart and saul are quakin', 

To think how we stood groanin, shakin', 

And swat wi' dread, 
While he wi' hingin lips and snakin', 

Held up his head. 

L — d, in the day of vengeance try him, 
L — d, visit them wha did employ him, 
And pass not in thy mercy by 'em, 

Nor hear their pray'r; 
But for thy people's sake destroy 'em, 

And dinna spare. 

But, L — d, remember me and mine, 
Wi 1 mercies temp'ral and divine, 
That I for gear and grace may shine, 

Exceed by nane, 
And a 1 the glory shall be thine* 

Amen. Amen ! 



470 BURNS' POEMS. 

THE FAREWELL. 

" The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer? 
Or what does he regard his single woes? 
But when, alas ! he multiplies himself, 
s To dearer selves, to the lov'd tender fair, 

To those whose bliss, whose beings hang upon him, 
To helpless children ! then, O then ! he feelt 
The point of misery fest'ring in his heart, 
And weakly weeps his fortune like a coward. 
Such, such am I ! undone !" 

1'homson's Edward and EUnnmrm. 

I. 
Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domains, 
Far dearer than the torrid plains 

Where rich ananas blow ! 
Farewell, a mother's blessing dear ! 
A brother's sigh ! a sister's tear! 

My Jean's heart-rending throe ! 
Farewell, my Bess ! tho' thou'rt bereft 

Of my parental care ; 
A faithful brother I have left, 
My part in him thou' It share ! 
Adieu too, to you too, 

My Smith, my bosom frien 1 ; 
When kindly you mind me, 
then befriend my Jean ! 

II. 
What bursting anguish tears my heart ! 
From thee, my Jeany, must I part ! 

Thou weeping answ'rest no ! 
Alas! misfortune stares my face, 
And points to ruin and disgrace; 

I for thy sake must go ! 
Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear, 

A grateful, warm adieu ! 
I, with a much indebted Jear, 

Shall still remember you ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 471 

All-hail then, the gale then, 

Wafts me from thee, dear shore ! 

It rustles, and whistles, 
I'll ne'er see thee more ! 



WILLIE CHALMERS. 



Wi' braw new branks in mickle pride, 

And eke a braw new brechan, 
*ly Pegasus I'm got astride, 

And up Parnassus pechin ; 
Voiles owre a bush wi' downward crush, 

The doited beastie stammers ; 
Then up he gets, and off he sets, 

For sake o' Willie Chalmers. 

II. 

I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn'd name 

May cost a pair o' blushes ; 
I am nae stranger to your fame, 

Nor his warm urged wishes. 
Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet, 

His honest heart enamors, 
And faith, ye'll no be lost a whit, 

Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers. 

III. 

Auld Truth hersel' might swear ye're fair, 

And honor safely back her, 
And modesty assume your air, 

And ne'er a ane mistak' her : 
And sic twa love-inspiring een 

Might fire even holy Palmers ; 
Nae wonder then they've fatal been 

To honest Willie Chalmers. 



473 BURNS' POEMS. 

IV. 
i doubt, na fortune may you shore 

Some mim-mou'd pouther'd priestie, 
Fu 1 lifted up wi' Hebrew lore, 

And band upon his breastie : 
But oh ! what signifies to you 

His lexicons and grammars ; 
The feeling hearts' the royal blue, 

And that's wi* Willie Chalmers. 

V. 

Some gapin 1 , glowrin', countra laird, 

May warsle for your favor ; 
May claw his lug, and straik his beam 

And host up some palaver. 
My bonnie maid, before ye wed 

Sic clumsy-witted hammers, 
Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp 

Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers. 

VI. 
Forgive the Bard ! my fond regard 

For ane that shares my bosom, 
Inspires my muse to gie 'm his dues, 

For de'il a hair I roose him. 
May powers aboon unite you soon, 

And fructify your amors, — 
And every year come in mair dear 

To you and Willie Chalmers. 



LINES. 

WRITTEN ON A BANK NOTE. 

Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf, 
Fell source o' a 1 my woe and grief ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 473 

For lack o' thee I've lost my lass, 
For lack o 1 thee I scrimp my glass. 
I see the children of affliction 
Unaided, through thy cursed restriction. 
I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile 
Amid his hapless victim's spoil : 
And for thy potence vainly wish'd, 
^ To crush the villain in the dust. 
For lack o' thee, I leave this much lov'd shore, 
Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more. 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 

Is there a whim-inspiring fool, 

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 

Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, 

Let him draw near ; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool, 

And drap a tear. 

Is there a bard of rustic song, 

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, 

That weekly this area throng, 

O, pass not bv ! 
But, with a frater-feeling strong, 

Here, heave a sigh. 

Is there a man, whose judgment clear, 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, 

Wild as the wave ; 
Here pause — and ; through the starting tear, 

Survey this grave. 

The poor inhabitant below, 
Was quick to learn and wise to know, 
And keenly felt the friendly glow, 
And softer flame, 



474 BURNS' POEMS. 

But thoughtless follies laid him low, 

And stain'd his name ! 
Reader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, 

In low pursuit ; 
Know, prudent, cautious self-control, 
Is wisdom's root. 



EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN. 

Hail, thairm-inspirin 1 , rattlin' Willie ! 
Though fortune's road be rough an' hillj 
To every fiddling, rhyming billie, 

We never heed, 
But take it like the unbacked filly, 

Proud o' her speed. 

When idly groavan whyles we saunter, 
Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter 
Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter, 

Some black bog-hole, 
Arrests us, the then scathe an' banter 

We're forced to thole. 

Hale be your heart ! hale be your fiddle ! 
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, 
To cheer you through the weary widdie 

0' this wild warl', 
Until you on a crummock driddle 

A gray-hair'd carl. 

Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon, 
Heaven send your heart-strings ay in tune, 
And screw your temper pins aboon 

A fifth or mair, 
The melancholious, lazie croon 

O' cankrie care. 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 475 

May still your life, from day to day, 
Nae " lente largo" in the play, 
But "allegretto forte " gay 

Harmonious flow, 
A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey — 

Encore ! bravo ! 
A blessing on the cherry gang 
Wha dearly like a jig or sang, 
An 1 never think o 1 right an' wrang 

By square an' rule, 
But as the clegs o' feeling stang 

Are wise or fool. 
My hand- waled curse keep hard in chase 
The harpy, hoodock, purse proud race, 
Wha count on poortith as disgrace — 

Their tuneless hearts ! 
May fireside discords jar a base 

To a 1 their parts ! 
But come, your hand, my careless brUher, 
P th' ither warl', if there's anither, 
An 1 that there is I've little swither 

About the matter ; 
We cheek for chow shall jog thegither, 

Pse ne'er bid better. 

We've faults and failings — granted clearly, 
We're frail backsliding mortals merely, 
Eve's bonnie squad priests wyte them sheerly 

For our grand fa'; 
But still, but still, I like them dearly — 

God bless them a' ! 

Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers, 
When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers, 
The witching, curs'd, delicious blinkers 

Hae put trie liyte, 
And gar't me sweet my waukrife winkers, 

Wi' girnari spite. 



476 BURNS' POEMS. 

But by yon moon ! — and that's high swearin 1 - 
An' every star within my hearin' ! 
An' by her een wha was a dear ane ' 

I'll ne'er forget ; 
I hope to gie the jads. a clearin' 

In fair play yet. 
My loss T mourn, but not repent it, 
I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it, 
A nee to the Indies I were winted, 

Some cantraip hour, 
By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted, 

Then, vive V amour ' 

Faites mes baissemairis respectueuse, 

To sentimental sister Susie, 

A rf honest Lucky ; no to roose you, 

Ye may be proud, 
That sic a couple fate allows ye 

To grace your blood. 

Nae mair at present can I measure, 

An' trowth my rhymin' ware's nae treasure . 

But when in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure, 

Be't light, be't dark, 
Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure 
To call at Park. 
Mossgiel, 30tt October, 1786. 



ON 

THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUNDAS, Esq 

OF ARNISTON, 

LATE LORD PRESIDENT OF THE COURT OF SESSIOB. 

Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks 
Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering 
rocks : 



BURNS' POEMS. 477 

Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains, 
The gathering floods burst o'er the distant 

plains ; 
Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan; 
The hollow caves return a sullen moan. 

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves, 
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves! 
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye, 
Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly ; 
Where to the whistling blast and waters' roar, 
Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore. 

O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear ! 
A loss these evil days can ne'er repair ! 
Justice, the high vicegerent of her God, 
Her doubtful balance ey'd, and sway'd her rod ; 
Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow, 
She sunk, abandon'd to the wildest woe. 

Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den, 
Now gay in hope, explore the paths of men : 
See from his cavern grim Oppression rise, 
And throw on Poverty his cruel eyes ; 
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly, 
And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry : 

Mark ruffian Violence, distain'd with crimes, 
Rousing elate in these degenerate times, 
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey, 
As guileful Fraud points out the erring way: 
While subtile Litigation's pliant tongue 
The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong: 
Hark, injur'd Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale. 
And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours th' unpitied 

wail ! 
Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains, 
To you I sing my grief-inspired sirains : 
Ye tempests, rage ! ye turbid torrents, roll ! 
Ve suit the joyless tenor of my soul. 



478 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign, 
Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine. 
To mourn the woes my country must endure, 
That wound degenerate ages cannot cure. 



TO HUGH PARKER 

In this strange land, this uncouth clime, 

A land unknown to prose or rhyme ; 

Where words ne'er crost the muse's hecklea, 

Nor limpet in poetic shackles ; 

A land that prose did never view it, 

Except when drunk he stacher't thro' it ; 

Here, ambush'd by the chimla cheek, 

Hid in an atmosphere of reek, 

I hear a wheel thrum i 1 the neuk, 

I hear it — for in vain I leuk. — 

The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel, 

Enhusked by a fog infernal : 

Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures, 

I sit and count my sins by chapters ; 

For life and spunk, like ither Christians 

I'm dwindled down to mere existence, • 

Wi 1 nae converse but Gallowa' bodies, 

Wi' nae kend face but Jenny Geddes'.* 

Jenny, my Pegasean pride ! 

Dowie she saunters down Nilhside, 

And ay a westlin leuk she throws, 

While tears hap o'er her auld brown nose ! 

Was it for this, wi' canny care, 

Thou bure the Bard through many a shire f 

• His mare 



BURNS' POEMS. 479 

At howes or hillocks never stumbled, 

And late or early never grumbled ? — 

O, had I power like inclination, 

I'd heeze thee up a constellation, 

To canter with the Sagitarre, 

Or loup the ecliptic like a bar ; 

Or turn the pole like any arrow ; 

Or when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow, 

Down the zodiac urge the race, 

And cast dirt on his godship's face ; 

For I could lay my bread and kail 

He'd ne'er cast saut upo' thy tail.— 

Wi' a' this care and a' this grief, 

And sma\ sma' prospect ofrelief, 

And nought but peat reek i' my head. 

How can I write what ye can read ?— 

Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o' June, 

Ye'll find me in a better tune ; 

But till we meet and weet our whistle, 

Tak this excuse for nae epistle. 



TO JOHN M'MURDO, Esq 

O, could I give thee India's wealth, 

As I this trifle send ! 
Because thy joy in both would be 

To share them wi' a friend. 

But golden sands did never grace 

The Heliconian stream ; 
Then tak what gold could never buy- 

An honest Bard's esteem. 



480 BURNS' POEMS. 

EPISTLE 
TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq 

OF FINTRAY : 

Olf THE CLOSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION BETWBBB 

SIB JAMES JOHNSTON AND CAPTAIN MILLER, FOB 

THE DUMFRIES DISTRICT OF BOROUGHS. 

Fintray, my stay in worldly strife, 
Friend o' my muse, friend o' my life, 

Are ye as idle 's I am ? 
Come then, \vi' uncouth, kintra fleg, 
O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg, 

And ye shall see me try him. 

I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears, 
Who left the all-important cares 

Of princes and their darlings , 
And, bent on winning borough towns, 
Came shaking hands wi' wabster lowns, 

And kissing barefit carlins. 

Combustion thro' our boroughs rode, 
Whistling his roaring pack abroad 

Of mad unmuzzled lions ; 
As Queensberry buff and blue unfurled, 
And Westerha' and Hopeton hurled 

To every Whig defiance. 

But cautious Queensberry left the war, 
Th' unmanner'd dust might soil his star , 

Besides, he hated bleeding: 
But left behind him heroes bright, 
Heroes in Caesarean fight, 

Or Ciceronian pleading. 

O ! for a throat like some huge Mons-meg, 
To muster o'er each ardent Whig 

Beneath Drumlanrig's banner 



BURNS' POEMS. 481 

Heroes and heroines commix, 
All in a field of politics, 

To win immortal honor. 

M'Murdo and his lovely spouse, 

(Th' enamor'd laurels kiss her brows!) 

Led on the loves and graces : 
She won each gaping burgess' heart, 
While he, all-conquering, play'd his part 

Among their wives and lasses. 
Craigdarroch led a light-arm 'd corps, 
Tropes, metaphors and figures pour, 

Like Hecla streaming thunder : 
Glennddel, skill'd in rusty coins, 
Blew up each Tory's dark designs, 

And bar'd the treason under. 
In either wing two champions fought, 
Redoubted Staig,* who set at naught 

The wildest savage Tory : 
And Welsh, t who ne'er yet flinch 'd his ground, 
High-wav'd his magnum-bonum round 

With Cyclopeian fury. 

Miller brought up th' artillery ranks, 
The many-pounders of the Banks, 

Resistless desolation ' 
While Maxwelton, that baron bold, 
'Mid Lawson'st port entrench'd his hold, 

And threaten'd worse damnation. 
To these what Tory hosts oppos'd, 
With these what Tory warriors clos'd, 

Surpasses my descriving: 
Squadrons extended long and large, 
With furious speed rush to the charge, 

Like raging devils driving. 

• Provost Staig of Dumfries. f Sheriff Welsh 
*ori? wson » a wine merchant in Dumfries. 
21 31 



482 BURNS' POEMS. 

What verse can sing, what prose narrate, 
The butcher deeds of bloody fate 

Amid this mighty tulzie ! 
Grim Horror girn'd — pale Terror roar'd, ■ 
As Murther at his thrapple shor'd, 

And hell mix'd in the brulzio. 
As highland craigs by thunder cleft, 
When light'nings fire the stormy lift. 

Hurl down with crashing rattle: 
As flames among a hundred woods ; 
As headlong foam a hundred floods, 

Such is the rage of battle ! 

The stubborn Tories dare to die ; 
As soon the rooted oaks would fly 

Before th' approaching fellers : 
The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar, 
When all his wintry billows pour 

Against the Buchan Bullers. 

Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night, 
Departed Whigs enjoy the fight, 

And think on former daring : 
The muffled murtherer* of Charles 
The Magna Charta flag unfurls, 

All deadly gules it's bearing. 

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame, 

Bold Scrimgeourt follows gallant Graham,! 

Auld Covenanters shiver. 
(Forgive, forgive, much wrong'd Montrose! 
Now death and hell engulph thy foes, 

Thou liv'st on high forever !) 

Still o'er the field the combat burns, 
The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns ; 

But Fate the word has spoken* 

•The executioner of Charles I. was maskc i. 
t Scrimgeour, Lord Dundee. 
t Graham, Marquis of Montrose. 



BURNS' POEMS. 483 

For woman's wit, and strength o' man, 
Alas ! can do but what they can ! 

The Tory ranks are broken. 
O that my een were flowing burns, 
My voice a lioness that mourns 

Her darling cubs' undoing ! 
That I might greet, that I might cry, 
While Tories fall, while Tories fly, 

And furious Whigs pursuing ! 
What Whig but melts for good Sir James? 
Dear to his country by the names 

Friend, patron, benefactor ! 
Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney save ! 
And Hopeton falls, the generous brave ! 

And Stewart,* bold as Hector. 
Thou, Pitt, shah rue this overthrow ; 
And Thurlow growl a curse of woe ; 

And Melville melt in wailing! 
How Fox and Sheridan rejoice ! 
And Burke shall sing, Prince, arise, 

Thy power is all-prevailing ! 
For your poor friend, the Bard, afar 
He only hears and sees the war, 

A cool spectator purely : 
So, when the storm the forest rends, 
The robin in the hedge descends, • 

And sober chirps securely. 



ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB 
TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY. 

Long life, my Lord, an' health be yours, 
Unskaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors ; 
Lord grant nae duddie desperate beggar, 
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger, 
•Stewart of Hillside 



484 BURNS' POEMS. 

May twin auld Scotland o' a life 
She likes — as lambkins like a knife. 

Faith, you and A s were right 

To keep the Highland hounds in sight. 
I doubt na 1 ! they wad bid nae better 
Than let them ance out owre the water ; 
Then up amang thae lakes and seas 
They'll mak 1 what rules and laws they pleas 
Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin, 
May set their Highland bluid a ranklin' ; 
Some Washington again may head them, 
Or some Montgomery fearless lead them, 
Till God knows what may be effected, 
When by such heads and hearts directed — 
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire 
May to Patrician rights aspire ! 
Nae sage North, nor sager Sackville, 
To watch and premier o'er the pack vile, 
An 1 whare will ye get Howes or Clintons 
To bring them to a right repentance, 
To cowe the rebel generation, 
An 1 save the honor of the nation ? 

They an' be d d ! what right hae they 

To meat, or sleep, or light o' day ? 

Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom, 

But what your lordship likes to gie them ? 

But hear, my lord ! Glengarry, hear ! 

Your hand's owre light on them, I fear; 

Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies, 

I canna' say but they do gaylies ; 

They lay aside a' tender mercies, 

An' tirl the hallions to the birses ; 

Yet while they're only poind't and herriet, 

They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit 

But smash them ! crash them a' to spails ! 

An' rot the dyvors i' the jails ! 

The young dogs, swinge them to the labor, 

Let wark an' hunger mak' them sober ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 486 

The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont, 
Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd ! 
An' if the wives an 1 dirty brats , 
E'en thigger at your doors and yetts, 
Flaffan wi' duds an* gray vvi 1 beas\ 
Frightin* away your deucks an' geese, 
Get out a horsewhip or a jovvler, 
The langest thong, the fiercest growler, 
An gar the tattered gypsies pack 
Wi' a' their bastarts at their back ! 
Go on, my Lord ! I lang to meet you, 
An 1 in my house at hame to greet you ; 
Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle, 
The benmost neuk beside the ingle, 
At my right han 1 assign'd your seat 
'Tween Herod's hip and Polycrate, — 
Or if you on your station tarrow, 
Between Almagro and Pizarro, 
A seat, I'm sure ye're weel deservin't ; 
An' till ye come— Your humble servant, 

Beelzebub. 
Juno 1st, Anno Mundi, 1790. 



TO JOHN TAYLOR 

With Pegasus upon a day, 

Apollo weary flying, 
Through frosty hills the journey lay,— 

On foot the way was plying, 

Poor slip-shod, giddy Pegasus, 

Was but a sorry walker ; 
To Vulcan then Apollo goes, 

To get a frosty calker. 

Obliging Vulcan fell to work, 
Threw by his coat and bonnet, 



36 BURNS' POEMS. 

And did Sol's business in a crack ; 

Sol paid him with a sonnet. 
Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead, 

Pity my sad disaster ; 
My Pegasus is poorly shod — 

I'll pay you like my master. 



ON 

SEEING MISS FONTENELLE 
IN A FAVORITE CHARACTER. 

Sweet naivete of feature, 

Simple, wild, enchanting elf, 
Not to thee, but thanks to nature, 

Thou art acting but thyself. 
Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected, 

Spurning nature, torturing art ; 
Loves and graces all rejected, 

Then indeed thou'd'st act a part. 



THE BOOK-WORMS. 

Through and through the inspired leaves, 
Ye maggots, make your windings; 

But, oh ! respect his lordship's taste, 
And spare his golden bindings. 



THE REPROOF. 

Rash mortal, and slanderous Poet, thy name 
Shall no longer appear in the records of fame ; 
Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes 
like the Bible, [libel? 

Says, the more 'tis a truth, Sir, the more 'tis a 



BURNS' POEMS. 487 

THE REPLJT. 

Like Esop's lion, Burns' says, gore I feel 
All others scorn — but damn that ass's heel. 



THE KIRK OF LAMJNGTOM. 

As cauld a wind as ever blow, 
A caulder kirk, and in't but few ; 
As cauld a minister's e'er spak, 
Ye'se a' be het ere I come back. 



THE LEAGUE AND COVENANT 
The Solemn League and Covenant 

Cost Scotland blood — cost Scotland tears t 
But it seal'd freedom's sacred cause — 

If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers 



INSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET. 
There's death in the cup — sae beware! 

Nay, more — there is danger in touching : 
But wha can avoid the fell snare ? 

The man and the wine sae bewitching ! 



THE TOAD-EATER 

What of earls with whom you have supt, 
And of dukes that you dined with yestreen? 

Lord ! a louse, Sir, is still but a louse, 
Though it crawl on the curls of a queen. 



488 ItURNS 1 POEMS. 

THE SELKIRK GRAOE 

Some hae meat and canna eat, 
And some wad eat that want it. 

But we hae meat, and we can eat, 
And sae the Lord be thanket. 



ON THE POET'S DAUGHTER. 

Here lies a rose, a budding rose, 

Blasted before its bloom ; 
Whose innocence did sweets disclose 

Beyond that flower's perfume. 

To those who for her loss are griev'd, 

This consolation's given — 
She's from a world of wo reliev'd, 

And blooms a rose in heaven. 



THE SONS OF OLD KILLIE. 
Tone—" Shawnboy." 

I. 

Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, 

To follow the noble vocation ; [other 

Your thrifty auld mother has scarce such an. 

To sit in that honored station. 
Tve little to say, but only to pray, 

As praying's the ton of your fashion; 
A prayer from the muse you well may excuse, 

? Tis seldom her favorite passion. 



BURNS' POEMS. 489 

II. 

Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and the 
tide, 

Who marked each element's border ; 
Who formed this frame with beneficent aim, 

Whose sovereign statute is order; [tention 
Within this dear mansion may wayward con- 

Or wither'd envy ne'er enter ; 
May secresy round be the mystical bound, 

And brotherly love be the centre. 



ON A SUICIDE. 

Earth'd up here lies an impo' hell, 
Planted by Satan's dibble — 

Poor silly wretch, he's damn'd himsel 1 
To save the Lord the trouble. 



THE JOYFUL WIDOWER 
Tbkjj— * Maffgy Lander/' 

I. 

I married with a scolding wife 

The fourteenth of November ; 
She made me weary of my life, 

By one unruly member. 
Long did I bear the heavy yoke, 

And many griefs attended ; 
But. to my comfort be it spoke, 

Now, now her life is ended. 



490 BURNS' POEMS. 

II. 

We liv'd full one and twenty years 

A man and wife together; 
At length from me her course sha steer d, 

And gone I know not whither: 
Would I could guess, I do profess, 

I speak, and do not flatter, 
Of all the women in the world, 

I never could come at her. 

III. 
Her body is bestowed well, 

A handsome grave does hide her , 
But sure her soul is not in hell, 

The deil would ne'er abide her. 
I rather think she is aloft, 

And imitating thunder ! 
For why, — methinks I hear her voice 

Tearing the clouds asunder. 



THERE WAS A LASS 

Tune— " Duncan Davison." 

I. 

There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, 

And she held o'er the moors to spin , 
There was a lad that follow'd her, 

They ca'd him Duncan Davison. 
The moor was driegh, and Meg was skiegh, 

Her favor Duncan could na win ; 
For wi 1 t he roke she wad him knock, 

And ay she shook the temper-pin. 

II. 

As o'er the moor they lightly foor, 
A burn was clear, a glen was green, 



BURNS' POEMS. 491 

Upon ihe banks they eas'd their shanks, 
And ay she set the wheel between : 

But Duncan swore a haly aith, 
That Meg should be a bride the morn, 

Then Meg took up her spinnin" graith, 
And flang them a' out o'er tlie burn. 

III. 
We'll big a house — a wee, wee house, 

And we will live like king and queen, 
8ae blithe and merry we will be 

When ye set by the wheel at e'en. 
A man may drink and no be drunk ; 

A man may fight and no be slain ; 
A man may kiss a bonnie lass, 

And ay be welcome back again. 



THENIEL MENZIE'S BONNIE 

MARY. 

Tune—" The Ruffian's Rant." 

I. 

In coming by the brig o 1 Dye, 

At Darlet we a blink did tarry ; 
As day was dawnin' in the sky, 

We drank a health to bonnie Mary. 
Theniel Menzie's bonnie Mary, 

Theniel Menzie's bonnie Mary , 
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, 
Kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary. 

II. 

Her een sae bright, her orow sae white, 
Her haffet locks as brown's a berry ; 

And ay, they dimpl't wi 1 a smile, 
The rosy cheeks o 1 bonnie Mary. 



492 BURNS' POEMS. 

III. 

We lap and danced the lee lang day, 

Till piper lads were wae ana weary 
But Charlie got the spring to pay, 
For kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary. 
Theniel Menzie's bonnie Mary, 

Theniel Menzie's bonnie Mary; 
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, 
Kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary. 



rEAE THE FRIENDS AND LAND 
I LOVE. 

Air — " Carron Side." 

I. 

Frae the friends and land I love, 

Driv'n by fortune's felly spite, 
Frae my best belov'd I rove, 

Never mair to taste delight ; 
Never mair maun hope to find 

Ease from toil, relief frae care ; 
When remembrance wracks the mind, 

Pleasures but unvail despair. 

II. 

Brightest climes shall mirk appear, 

Desert ilka blooming shore, 
Till the fates, nae mair severe, 

Friendship, love, and peace restore ; 
Till Revenge, wi' laureled head, 

Bring our banish'd hame again ; 
And ilk loyal bonnie lad 

Cross the seas and win his ain. 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 493 

WEARY FA' YOU, DUNOAN GHAT 
Tunb — " Duncan Gray." 

Weary fa' you, Duncan Gray — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
Wae gae by you, Duncan Gray— 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
When a' the lave gae to their play, 
Then I maun sit the lee lang day, 
And jog the cradle wi' my tae, 

And a' for girdin o't. 

II. 

Bonnie was the Lammas moon— 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
Glowrin' a 1 the hills aboon — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
The girdin brak, the beast came down, 
I tint my curch, and baith my shoon ; 
Ah ! Duncan ye' re an unco loon — _ 

Wae on tha bad girdin o't ! 

III. 

But, Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith— 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
Ise bless you wi' my hindmost breath — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
Duncan, gin yell keep your aith, 
The beast again can bear us baith, 
And auld Mess John will mend the skaith. 

And clout the bad girden o't. 



494 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

THE BLUDE RED ROSE AT YULE 
MAY BLAW 
Tone—" To daunton me." 

I. 

The blude red rose at Yule may blaw, 

The simmer lilies bloom in snaw, 

The frost may freeze the deepest sea ; 

But an auld man shall never daunton me. 
To daunton me, and me so young, 
Wi v his fauae heart and fiatt'ring tongue, 
That is the thing you ne'er shall see ; 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 

IT. 

For a' his meal and a 1 his maut, 
For a' hia fresh beef and his saut, 
For a' his gold and white monie, 
An auld man shall never daunton me. 

III. 
His gear may buy him kye and yowes, 
His gear may buy him glens and knowee , 
But me he shall not buy nor fee, 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 

IV. 

He hirples twa fauld as he dow, 

Wi' his teethless gab and his auld beld pow, 

And the rain rains down frae his red mee^d 
ee — 

That auld man shall never daunton me. 
To daunton me, and me sae young, 
Wi' his fause heart and fiatt'ring tongue, 
That is the thing you ne'er shall see ; 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 



BURNS POEM? 496 

THE PLOUGHMAN. 

Tdkb— " Up wi' the Ploughman." 

I. 

The ploughman he's a bonnie lad, 

His mind is ever true, jo ; 
His garters knit below his knee, 
His bonnet it is blue, jo. 
Then up wi' the ploughman lad, 

And hey my merry ploughman • 
Of a 1 the trades that I do ken, 
Commend me to the ploughman. 

If. 

My ploughman he comes hame at e en, 

He's aften wat and weary ; 
Cast of the wat. put on the dry, 

And gae to bed, my dearie ! 

IIJ. 

I will wash my ploughman's hose, 

And I will dress his o'erlay ; 
I will mak rny ploughman's bed, 

And cheer him late and early. 

IV. 

I hae been east, 1 hae been west, 

I hae been at Saint Johnston ; 
The bonniest sight that e'er I saw 

Was the ploughman laddie dancin'. 

V. 

Snaw-white stockins on his legs, 

And siller buckles glancin 1 ; 
A gude blue bonnet on his head— 

And 0, but he was handsome ! 



196 BURNS' POEMS. 

VI. 

Commend me to the barn-yard, 

And the corn-mou, man; 
I never gat my coggie fou, 
Till I met wi' the ploughman. 
Up wi 1 my ploughman lad, 

And hey my merry ploughman ! 
Of a 1 the trades that I do ken, 
Commend me to the ploughman. 



RATTLIN' ROARIN' WILLIE 

Tun»— " Rattlin', Roarin' Willie." 

I. 

O rattlin', roarin' Willie, 

O, he held to the fair, 
An' for to sell his fiddle, 

An' buy some other ware ; 
But parting wi' his fiddle, 

The saut tear blin't his ee, 
And rattlin', roarin' Willie, 

Ye're welcome home to me! 

II. 

Willie, come sell your fiddle, 
O sell your fiddle sae fine ; 

O Willie, come sell your fiddle, 
And buy a pint o' wine ! 

If I should sell my fiddle, 

The warl' would think. I was mad, 

For mony a rantin' day, 
My tidd'e and I hae had 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 497 

III. 

As I cam by Crochallan, 

I cannily keekit ben— 
Rattlin', roarin' Willie 

Was sitting at yon board en* } 
Sitting at yon board en*, 

And amang good companie ; 
Rattlin', roarin' Willie, 

Ye' re welcome hame to me '. 



AS I WAS A-WAND'RING. 

Tomb — ** Rinn Meudial mo Mhealladh." 

I. 

4s I was a wand'ring ae midsummer e'enin', 

The pipers and youngsters were making theii 
game ; 
Amang them I spied my faithless fause lover, 

Which bled a' the wounds o' my dolor again. 
Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi' 
him ; 

I may be distress'd, but I winna complain ; 
1 flatter my fancy I may get anither, 

My heart it shall never be broken for ane. 

II. 
I couldna get sleeping till dawnm' for greetin', 
The tears trickled down like the hail and the 
rain: 
Had I na got greetin', my heart wad a broken, 
For, oh ! love forsaken's a tormenting pain. 

III. 

Although he has left me for greed o 1 the siller, 
I dinna envy him the gains he can win ; 
33 



498 BURNS' POEMS. 

I rather wad bear a' the lade o' my sorrow 
Than ever hae acted sae faithless to hirn, 

Weel, sinct, he has left me, may pleasure gae wf 
hi— i, 
I may be distressM, but I winna complain ; 

I flatter my fancy I may get anither, 

My heart it shall never be broken for ane. 



MY HARRY WAS A GALLANT GAT 
Turns— " Highlander's Lament." 

I. 

My Harry was a gallant gay, 
Fu' stately strode he on the plain : 

3ut now he's banished far away, 
I'll never see bim back, again. 

for him back again ! 

for him back again ! 

1 wad gie a 1 Knockhaspie's land, 

For Highland Harry back again. 

II. 

When a 1 the lave gae to their bed, 

I wander dowie up the glen ; 
I set me down and greet my fill, 

And ay I wish him back again. 

III. 

O were some villains hangit high, 

And ilka body had their ain ! 
Then I might see the joyfu' sight, 
My Highland Harry back again. 
"0 for him back again ! 

O for him back again ! 
I wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land, 
For Highland Harry back again. 



BURNS' POEMS. 499 

SIMMER'S A PLEASANT TIME. 
Tune— " A waukln o'. •' 

I. 

Simmer's a pleasant time, 
Flow'rs of ev'ry color; 
The water rins o'er the heugh, 
And I long for my true lover. 
Ay waukin O, 

Waukin still and wearie : 
Sleep I can get nane 
For thinking on my dearie. 

II. 
When I sleep I dream, 

When I wauk I'm eerie ; 
Sleep I can get nane 

For thinking on my dearie. 

III. 

inanely night comes on, 

A' the lave are sleeping ; 
I think on my bonnie lad, 
And I bleer my een with greetin'. 
Ay waukin O, 

Waukin still and wearie : 
Sleep I can get nane 
For thinking on my dearie. 



WHEN ROSY MAY. 
Tune — " The gardener wi' his paidle." 

I. 
When rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her gay, green-spreading bowera, 
Then busy, busy are his hours — 
The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 



500 BURNS' POEMS. 

The crystal waters gently fa' , 
The merry birds are lovers a' ; 
The scented breezes round him blaw — 
The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 

II. 
When purple morning starts the hare 
To steal upon her early fare, 
Then thro 1 the dews he maun repair — 

The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 
When day, expiring in the west, 
The curtain draws of nature's rest, 
He flies to her arms, he lo'es best — 

The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 



LADY MARY ANN. 

Tunk— " Craigtown's growing.' 

I. 

O, Lady Mary Ann 

Looks o'er the castle wa\ ' 
She saw three bonnie boys 

Playing at the ba' ; 
The youngest he was 

The flower arnang them a\ 
My bonnie laddie's young, 

But he's growin' yet. 

n. 

O father ! father ! 

An' ye think it fit, 
We'll send him a year 

To the college yet ; 
We'll sew a green ribbon 

Round about his hat, 
And that will let them ken 

He's to marry yet. 



BURNS' POEMS. 501 

III. 

Lady Mary Ann 

Was a flower i' the dew, 
Sweet was its smell, 

And bonnie was its hue ; 
And the langer it blossom'd, 

The sweeter it grew ; 
For the lily in the bud 

Will be bonnier yet. 

IV. 

Young Charlie Cochran 

Was the sprout of an aik ; 
Bonnie and bloomin', 

And straught was its make x 
The sun took delight 

To shine for its sake, 
And it will be the brag 

O' the forest yet. 

V. 

The simmer is gane 

When the leaves they were green, 
And the days are awa 

That we hae seen ; 
But far better days 

I trust will come again, 
For my bonnie laddie's young, 

Bat he's growin' yet. 



MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE TBt 
Tim* — " Lady Badiuscoth'i Reel. n 
I. 
My love she's but a lassie vet, 
My love site's but a lassie vet ; 



502 BURNS' POEMS. 

We'll let her stand a year or twa, 
She'll no be half sae saucy yet. 

I rue the day I sought her, O, 
I rue the day I sought her, O ; 

Wha gets her, needs na say she's woo'd 
But he may say he's bought her, O ! 

II. 

Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet, 

Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet 
Gae seek for pleasure where ye will, 

But here I never miss'd it yet. 
We're a' dry wi' drinking o't, 

We're a' dry wi' drinking o't, 
The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife, 

An' could na preach for thinkin' o't. 



SENSIBILITY HOW CHARMING 

Tvwk — " Cornwallis' Lament for Colonel Muirnead.' 

I. 

Sensibility how charming, 

Dearest Nancy ! thou can'st tell, 
But distress with horrors arming, 

Thou hast also known too well. 
Fairest flower, behold the lily, 

Blooming in the sunny ray — 
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, 

See it prostrate on the clay. 

II. 

Hear the woodlark charm the forest, 

Telling o'er his little joys : 
Hapless bird ! a prey the surest 

To each 1 pirate of the skites. 



BURNS' POEMS. 503 

Dearly bought the hidden treasure, 

Finer feelings can bestow ; 
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure, 

Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



OUT OVER THE FORTH 

Tome— " Charlie Gordon's welcome name." 

I. 

Out over the Forth I look to the north, [me f 
But what is the north and its Highlands to 

The south nor the east gie ease to my breast, 
The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea. 

II. 

But I look to the west, when I gae to rest, [be; 

That happy my dreams and my slumbers may 
For far in the west lives he I lo'e best, 

The lad that is dear to my babie and me. 



THE TITHER MORN 
To a Highland Air. 
I. 
The tither morn, 
When I forlorn. 
Aneath an aik sat moaning, 
I did na trow, 
I'd see my Jo, 
Beside me, gain the gloaming. 
But he sae trig, 
Lap o'er the rig, 



504 BURNS' POEMS. 

And dawtingly did cheer me. 

When I, what reck, 

Did least expec', 
To see my lad sae near me. 

II. 

His bonnet he, 

A thought ajee, 
Cock'd sprush when first he clasp'd me 

And I, I wat, 

Wi' faintness grat, 
While in his grips he press' d me. 

Deil tak' the war ! 

I late and air, 
Hae wish'd since Jock departed ; 

But now as glad 

I'm wi' my lad, 
As short syne broken-hearted. 



III. 

Fu' aft at e'en 

Wi' dancm' keen, 
When a 1 were blithe and merry, 

I car'd na by, 

Sae sad was I 
In abscence o 1 my dearie. 

But, praise be blest, 

My mind's at rest, 
I'm happy wi' my Johnny i 

At kirk and fair, 

I'se ay be there, 
And be as canty "s ony. 



BURNS' POEMS. 505 

THE CARDIN' O'T 
Tune— " SaJt-fish and dumplings'' 

I. 

1 coft a stane o' haslock woo 1 , 

To make a wat to Johnny o't ; 
For Johnny is my only jo, 
I lo'e him best of ony yet. 

The cardin o't, the spinnin' o't, 

The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't ; 
When ilka ell cost me a groat, 
The tailor staw the lynin o't. 

II. 

For though his locks be lyart gray, 

And tho' his brow be held aboon ; 
Yet I hae seen him on a day, 
The pride of a 1 the parishen. 

The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't, 

The warpin' o't, the winnin' o * ; 
When ilk ell cost me a groat, 
The tailor staw the lynin o't. 



THE WEARY PUND O' TOW 

Tune—" The weary Pund o' Tow." 

I. 

The weary pund, the weary pund, 

The weary pund o' tow ; 
I think my wife will end her life 

Before she spin her tow. 
I bought my wife a stane o' lint 

As gude as e'er did grow ; 
And a' that she has made o' that, 
As ae poor pund o' tow. 



506 BURNS' POEMS. 

II. 

There sat a bottle in a bole, 

Beyont the ingle low, 
And ay she took the tither souk, 

To drouk the stowrie tow. 

in. 

Quoth I, for shame, ye dirty dame, 

Gae spin your tap o' tow ! 
She took the rock, and wi' a knock 

She brak it o'er my pow. 

IV. 

At last her feet — I sang to see't— 
Gaed foremost o'er the knowe ; 
And or I wad anither jad, 
I'll wallop in a tow. 
The weary pund, the weary pund, 

The weary pund o' tow, 
I think my wife will end her life 
Before she spin her tow. 



SAB FAR AWA. 

Tunb— •• Dalkeith Maiden Bridg t. w 

I. 

O, sad and heavy should I part, 

But for her sake sae far awa ; 
Unknowing what my way may thwart, 

My native land sae far awa. 
Thou that of a' things Maker art, 

That form'd this fair sae far awa, 
Gie body strength, then I'll ne'er start 

At this my way sae far awa. 



BURNS 1 POEMS. 607 

II. 

How. true is love to pure desert, 

So love to her that's far awa : 
And nocht can heal my bosom's smart. 

While, oh ! she is sae awa. 
^ane other love, nane other dart, 

I feel but her's, sae far awa; 
But fairer never touch'd a heart 

Than her's, the fair sae far awa. 



SUCH A PARCEL OF ROGUES II 
A NATION. 

Tune — " A parcel of rogues in a nation.*' 

I. 

Fareweel to a 1 the Scottish fame, 
Fareweel our ancient glory, 

Fareweel e'en to the Scottish name, 
Sae fam'd in martial story, 

Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands, 
And Tweed rins to the ocean, 

To mark where England's province stands- 
Such a parcel of rogoes in a nation. 

II. 

What force or guile could not subdue, 

Thro 1 many warlike ages, 
Is wrought now by a coward few, 

For hireling traitors' wages. 
The English steel we could disdain, 

Secure in valor's station ; 
But English gold has been our bane — 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. 



508 BURNS 1 POEMS. 

m. 

O would, or I had seen the day, 

That treason thus could fell us, 
My auld gray head had lien in clay, 

Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace ! 
But pith and power, to my last hour 

I'll mak' this declaration ; 
We're bought and sold for English gold, 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. 



HERE'S HIS HEALTH IN WATEB 
Tune — "The Job of Journey-work." 

Altho 1 my back be at the wa\ 

And tho' he be the fautor ; 
Altho' my back be at the wa', 

Yet, here's his health in water ! 
O ! wae gae by his wanton sides, 

Sae brawlie he could flatter ; 
Till for his sake I'm slighted sair, 

And dree the kintra clatter. 
But tho 1 my back be at the wa 1 , 

And tho' he be the fautor ; 
But tho' my back be at the wa*, 

Yet here's his health in water ! 



THE LASS OF EOCLEFEOHA 
Tuns— " Jacky Latin." 

I. 

Gat ye me, gat ye me 

O gat ye hie wi' naething ? 



BURNS' POEMS. 509 

Rock and reel, and spinnin' wheel, 

A mickle quarter basin. 
Bye at tour, my gutcher has 

A hich house and a laigh ane, 
A' for bye, my bonnie sel\ 

The toss of Ecclefechan. 

II. 

haud your tongue now, Luckie Laing 

haud your tongue and jauner ; 

1 held the gate till you I met, 
Syne I began to wander : 

I tint my whistle and my sang, 

1 tint my peace and pleasure ; 

But your green graff, now, Luckie Laing 
Wad airt me to my treasure. 



THE HIGHLAND LADDIE 

Tomb—" If thou'lt play me fair play." 

I. 

The bonniest lad that e'er I saw, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, 
Wore a plaid, and was fu' braw, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 
On his head his bonnet blue, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; 
His royal heart was firm and true, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 

II. 

Trumpets sound, and cannons roar, 
Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie ; 

And a' the hills wi' echo roar, 
Bonnie Lowland hssie. 



510 BURNS' POEMS. 

Glory, honor, now invite, 

Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie, 

For freedom and my king to fight, 
Bonnie Lowland lassie. 

m. 

The sun a backward course shall takt 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, 
Ere aught thy manly courage shake, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 
Go, for yourself procure renown, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; 
And for your lawful king, his crown, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 



HERB'S TO THY HEALTH, MI 
BONNIE LASS. 

Tithe— " Laggan Burn." 
I. 
Here's to thy health, my bonnie lass, 

Gude night, and joy be wi' thee ; 
I'll come nae mair to thy bower-door, 
To tell thee that I lo'e thee. 

dinna think, my pretty pink, 
But I can live without thee : 

1 vow and swear I dinna care 
How lang ye look about ye. 

II. 
Thou'rt ay sae free informing me 

Thou hast nae mind to marry ; 
I'll be as free informing thee 

Nae time hae I to tarry. 



BURNS' POEMS. 511 

I ken thy friends try ilka means, 

Frae wedlock to delay thee ; 
Depending on some higher chance— 

But fortune may betray thee. 

III. 
I ken they scorn thy low estate, 

But that does never grieve me ; 
But I'm as free as any ne, 

Sma' siller will relieve me. 
I count my health my greatest wealth, 

Sae long as I enjoy it : 
I'll fear nae scant, I'll bode nae want, 

As lang's I get employment. 

IV. 
But far off iowls hae feathers fair, 

And ay until ye try them : 
Tho' they seem fair, still have a care, 

They may prove waur than I am. 
But at twal at night, when the moon shines 
bright, 

My dear, I'll come and see thee ; 
For the man who lo'es his mistress weel, 

Nae travel makes him weary. 



ADDRESS TO A YOUNG LADY. 

Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, 
In sacred strains and tuneful members joined 

Accept the gift ; tho' humble he who gives, 
Rich is the tribute of a grateful mind. 

So may no ruffian feeling in thy breast 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among; 

But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, 
Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song : 



512 RURNS* POEMS. 

Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears, 
As modest want the tale of woe reveals ; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endears. 
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. 



SONG. 



As down the burn they took their way, 

And through the flowery dale ; 
His cheek to hers he aft did lay, 

And love was ay the tale. 
With " Mary, when shall we return, 

Sic pleasure to renew ?" 
Quoth Mary, " Love, I like the burn, 

And ay shall follow you." 



O LAY THY LOOF IN MINE, LAS8. 
Tune— " Cordwainer's March." 

I. 

O lav thy loof in mine, lass, 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass ; 
And swear on thy white hand, lass, 

That thou wilt be my ain. 
A slave to love's unbounded sway, 
He aft has wrought me meikle wae , 
But now he is my deadly fae, 

Unless thou be my ain. 

II. 

There's monie a lass has broke my rest. 
That for a blink I hae lo'ed best ; 
But thou art queen within my breast, 
Forever to remain. 



BURNS POEMS. 513 

O lay thy loof in mine, lass, 
In mine, lass, v mine, lass ; 
And swear on thy white hand, lass, 
And thou wilt be my ain. 



TO OH L ORIS. 

'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend, 

Nor thou the gift refuse, 
Nor with unwilling ear attend 

The moralizing muse. 

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, 

Must bid the world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms), 

To join the friendly few. 

Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast, 

Chill came the tempest's lower ; 
(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 

Did nip a fairer flower). 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no raorr 

Still much is left behind ; 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store— 

The comforts of the mind ! 

Thine is the self-approving glow 

On conscious honor's part ; 
And — dearest gift of heaven below— 

Thint friendship's truest heart. 

The joys refined of sense and taste, 

With every Muse to rove : 
And doubly were the poet blest, 

These joys could he improve. 



514 BURNS' POEMS. 

PEG-A-RAMSEY. 
Txtne— " Cauld is the e'enin' blast." 

I. 

Cauld is the e'enin' blast 
O' Boreas o'er the pool, 

And dawnin' it is dreary, 

When birks are bare at Yule. 

II. 
O bitter blaws the winter blast 

When bitter bites the frost, 
And in the mirk and dreary drift 

The hills and glens are lost. 

III. 

Ne'er sae murky blew the nigh* 
That drifted o'er the hill, 

But a bonnie Peg-a-Ramsey 
Gat grist to her mill. 



GLOSSARY. 



The ch and eh have always the guttural sound. 
The sound of the English diphthong oo, is 
commonly spelled ou. The French u, a sound 
which often occurs in the Scottish language, 
is marked oo, or ui. The a in genuine Scot- 
tish words, except when forming a diphthong, 
or followed by an e mute after a single con- 
sonant; sounds generally like the broad En- 
glish a in wall. The Scottish diphthong <b, 
always, and ea, very often, sound like the 
French e masculine. The Scottish diphthong 
ey, sounds like the Latin ex. 

A 

A\ All. 

Aback, away, aloof. 

Abeigh, at a shy distance. 

Aboon, above, up. 

Abread, abroad, in sight. 

Abreed, in breadth. ' 

Addle, putrid water, &c. 

Ae, one. 

Aff, off; Aff loo/, unpremeditated. 

Afore, before. 

Aft, oft. 

Aften, often. 

Agley, off the right line ; wrong 

Aibtins, perhaps. 

Ain, own. 

Airle-penny, Airles, earnest-money. 

Air.n, iron. 

Aith, an oath. 

Aits, oats. 

Aiver, an old horse 

Aizle, a hot cinder 



516 GLOSSARY 

Alakt, alas. 

Alane, alone. 

Aktcart, awkward. 

Amaist, almost. 

Atnang, among. 

An\ and; if. 

A nee, once. 

Ane, one; and. 

Anent, over against 

Anither, another. 

Ase, ashes. 

Asklent, asquint ; aslant. 

Asteer, abroad ; stirring, 

Alhart, athwart. 

Aught, possession ; as, in a' my aught, in all my pos- 
session. 

Auldlang syne, olden time, days of other years. 

Auld, old. 

Auldfarran, or auld /arrant, sagacious, cunning, pru- 
dent. 

Ava, at all. 

Awa\ away. 

Awful, awful. 

Awn, the beard of barley, oats, &o 

Awnie, bearded 

Ayont, beyond 

B 

BA\ Ball. 

Backets, ash boards. 

Backlins, coming ; coming back, returning. 

Buck, returning. 

Bad, did bid. 

Baide x endured, did stay 

Baggie, the belly. 

Bainie, having large bones, stout 

Bairn, a child. 

Bairntime, a family of children, a brood 

Baith, both. 

Ban, to swear. 

Bant, bone. 

Bang, to beat ; to strive. 

Bardie, diminutive of bard. 

Bare/it, barefooted. 

Barmie, of, or like barm. 



GLOSSARY. 517 

Batch, a crew, a gang. 
Batts, bots. 
Baudrom, a cat. 
Bauld, bold. 
Baivk, bank. 

^aws'tit, having a white ttripe down the face 
Be, to let be ; to give over; to cease. 
Bear, barley. 

Beastie, diminutive of beast. 
Beet, to add fuel to fire. 
Beld, bald. 
Belyve, by and by. 

Ben, into the spence or parlor; a spence. 
Benlomond, a noted mountain in Dumbartonshire. 
Belhankit, grace after meat. 
Beuk, a book. 

Bicker, a kind of wooden dish , a short race. 
Bie, or Bield, shelter. 
Bien, wealthy, plentiful. 
Big, to build. 

Biggin, building ; a house. 
Biggit, built. 
Bill, a bull. 

Billie, a brother ; a young fellow, 
Bing, a heap of grain, potatoes, &c 
Birk, birch. 

Birken-shaw, Birchen-wood-shaw, a small wood. 
Birkie, a clever fellow. 

Birring, the noise of partridges, &c. when they spring 
Bit, crisis, nick of time. 
Bizz, a bustle, to buzz. 

Blastie, a shrivelled dwarf; a term of contempt. 
Blaslit, blasted. 
Blate, bashful, sheepish. 
Blather, bladder. 

Blatid, a flat piece of any thing; to slap. 
Blaw, to blow, to boast. 
Bleerit, bleared, sore with rheum. 
Bleert and blin', bleared and blind. 
Bleezing, blazing. 
Blellum., an idle talking fellow. 
Blether, to talk idly; nonsense. 
Bleth'rin, talking idly. 

Blink, a little while ; a smiling look ; to took kindly ; 
to shine by fits. 



518 GLOSSARY 

Blinker, a term of contempt 

Blinkin, smirking. 

Blue-gown, one of those beggars who get annually, on 
the king's birth-day, a blue cloak or gown, with a 
badge. 

Bluid, blood. 

Bluntie, a sniveller, a stupid person. 

Blype, a shred, a large piece. 

Bock, to vomit, to gush intermittently 

Bocked, gushed, vomited. 

Bodle, a small gold coin. 

Bogles, spirits, hobgoblins. 

Bonnie, or bonny, handsome, beautiful. 

Bonnock, a kind of thick cake of bread, a small jam- 
nock, or loaf made of oatmeal. 

Boord, a board. 

Boortree, the shrub elder; planted much of old m 
hedges of barn-yards, &c. 

Boost, behoved, must needs 

Bore, a hole in the wall. 

Botch, an angry tumor. 

Bousing, drinking. 

Bow-kail, cabbage. 

Bowt, bended, crooked. 

Brackens, fern. 

Brae, a declivity ; a precipice ; the slope of a hilL 

Braid, broad. 

Braindg't, reeled forward. 

Braik, a kind of harrow. 

Braindge, to run rashly forward. 

Brak, broke, made insolvent. 

Branks, a kind of wooden curb for hones. 

Brash, a sudden illness. 

Brats, coarse clothes, rags, &c. 

Brattle, a short race ; hurry ; fury. 

Braw, fine, handsome. 

Brawly, or brawlie, very well ; finely ; heartily. 

Brazie, a morbid sheep. 

Breastie, diminutive of breast. 

Breastit, did spring up or forward. 

Breckan, fern. 

Breef, an invulnerable or irresistible spell 

Breeks, breeches. 

Brent x smooth. 

Brtwtn, brewing 



GLOSSARY. 619 

tine, juice, liquid. 

/?<•?'», a bridge. 

B'unstane, brimstone 

8nsket, the breast, the bosom. 

hnther. a brother. 

I- rock, a badger. 

K'ogne, a hum; a trick. 

B'oo, broth; liquid; water. 

Broose, broth ; a race at country weddings, who shall 

first reach the bridegroom's house on renming from 

church. 
Browster-wives, ale-house wives. 
Brugh, a burgh. 
Brutlzie, a broil, a combustion. 
Brunt, did burn, burnt. 
Bruit, to burst ; burst. 
Buchan-bullers, the boiling of the sea among the rocks 

on the coast of Buchan. 
Buckskin, an inhabitant of Virginia. 
Bught, a pen. 
Bughtin-time, the time of collecting the sheep in the 

pens to be milked. 
Buirdly, stout-made; broad-made. 
Bum-clock, a humming beetle that flies in the summer 

evenings. 
Bumming, humming as bees. 
Bummle, to blunder. 
Bummler, a blunderer. 
Bunker, a window-seat. 
Burdies, diminutive of birds. 
Bure, did bear. 
Burn, water; a rivulet. 
Bumewin, i. e. burn the wind, a black-smith. 
Burnie, diminutive of burn. 
Buskie, bushy. 
Buskit, dressed. , 
Busks, dresses. 
Bussle, a bustle ; to bustle. 
Buss, shelter. 
But, bot, with ; without 
But an" 1 ben, the country kitchen and parlor. 
By himstl, lunatic, distracted. 
Byke, a bee-hive. 
Byre, a cow-stable ; a sheep-pen. 



520 GLOSSARY. 

C. 
CA>, To call, >.o name ; to drive. 
Ca% or ca?d, called, driven ; calved. 
Cadger, a carrier. 

Cadie, or caddie, a person ; a young fellow 
Caff, chaff. 
Caird, a tinker. 
Cairn, a loose heap of stones. 
Calf-ward, a small enclosure for calves. 
Callan, a boy. 

Caller, fresh ; sound ; refreshing. 
Canie, or cannie, gentle, mild; dexterous 
Cannilic, dexterously ; gently. 
Cantie, or canty, cheerful, merry. 
Cantraip, a charm, a spell. 
Cap-slane, cope-stone ; key-stone. 
Careerin, cheerfully. 
Carl, an old man. 
Carlin, a stout old woman. 
Cartes, cards. 
Caudron, a caldron. 
Cauk and keel, chalk and red clay. 
Cauld, cold. 

Caup, a wooden drinking- vessel. 
Cesses, taxes. 

Chanter, a part of a bag-pipe. 
Chap, a person, a fellow ; a blow 
Chaup, a stroke, a blow. 
Cheekit, cheeked. 
Cheep, a chirp j'to chirp. 
Chiel, or eheel, a young fellow. 
Chimla, or chimlie, a fire-grate, a fire-place. 
Chimla-lug, the fireside. 
Chittering, shivering, trembling. 
Chockin, choking. 

Chow, to chew ; cheek for chow, side by side 
Chuffie, fat-faced. 

Clachan, a small village about a church; a 
Claise, or claes, clothes. 
Claith, cloth. 
Claithing, clothing. 

Claivers, nonsense ; not speaking sense. 
Clap, clapper of a mill. 
Clarkit, wrote. 
Clash, an idle tale, the story of the lay 



GLOSS ART. 521 

Clatter, to tell idle stories ; an idle story 

Claiight, snatched at, laid hold of. 

Claut, to clean ; to scrape. 

Clauted, scraped. 

Clavers, idle stories. 

Claw, to scratch. 

Cleed, to clothe. 

deeds, clothes. 

Cleekit, having caught. 

Clinkin, jerking; clinking. 

Clinkumbell, he who rings the church belL 

Clips, shears. 

Clishmaclaver, idle conversation 

Clock, to hatch ; a beetle. 

Clockin, hatching. 

Cloot, the hoof of a cow, sheep, Sec. 

Clootie, an old name for the Devil. 

Clour, a bump or swelling after a blow. 

Cluds, clouds. 

Coaxin, wheedling. 

Coble, a fishing-boat 

Corkernony, a lock of hair tied upon a girl's head: a cap. 

Coft, bought. 

Cog, a wooden dish. 

Coggie, diminutive of cog. 

Coila, from Kyle, a district of Ayrshire; so called, saith 

tradition, from Coil, or Coilus, a Pictish monarch. 
Collie, a general, and sometimes a particular name for 

country curs. 
Collieshangie, quarrelling, an uproar. 
Commaun, command. 
Good, the cud. 

Coif, a blockhead ; a ninny. 
Cookit, appeared, and disappeared, by fits. 
Coost, did cast. 
Coot, the ancle or foot 
Cootie, a wooden kitchen dish -.-also, those fowl* 

whose legs are clad with feathers, are said to be 

cootie. 



5*22 GLOSSARY. 

Corbie*, a species of the crow. 

Core, corps ; party ; clan. 

CornH, fed with oats. 

Cotter, the inhabitant of a cot-houst, or cottage. 

Coulhie, kind, loving. 

Cove, a cave. 

Cowe, to terrify; to keep under, to lop; a fright; 
branch of furze, broom, &c. 

Coxop, to barter ; to tumble over ; a gang. 

Coivpit, tumbled. 

Coivrin, cowering. 

Cowt, a colt. 

Cozie, snug. 

Cozily, snugly. 

Crabbit, crabbed, fretful. 

Crack, conversation ; to converse. 

Crackin, conversing. 

Craft, or croft, a field near a house (in old husbandry). 

Craiks, cries or calls incessantly; a bird. 

Crambo-clink, or crambo-jingle, rhymes, doggrel verse*. 

Crank, the noise of an ungreased wheel. 

Crankous, fretful, captious. 

Cranreuch, the hoar-frost. 

Crap, a crop ; to crop. 

Craw, a crow of a cock ; a rook. 

Creel, a basket ; to have one's wits in a creel, to be craz- 
ed ; to be fascinated. 

Creep ie-stool, the same as cutty-stool. 

Creeshie, greasy. 

Crood, or croud, to coo as a dove. 

Croon, a hollow and continued moan; to make a noise 
like the continued roar of a bull ; to hum a tune. 

Crooning, humming. 

Crouchie, crook-backed. 

Crouse, cheerful ; courageous. 

Crousely, cheerfully ; courageously. 

Croicdie, a composition of oat-meal and boiled water, 
sometimes from the broth of beef, mutton, &c. 

Crowdie-time, breakfast time. 

Crowlin, crawling. 

Crummock, a cow with crooked horns. 

Crump, hard and brittle ; spoken of bread. 

Crunt, a blow on the head with a cudgel. 

Cuif a blockhead, a ninny. 

Cummock, a short staff with a crooked head 



GLOSSARY. 523 

Curchie, a courtesy 

Curler, a player at a game on the ice, practiced in 

Scotland, called curling. 
Curlie, curled, whose hair falls naturally in ringlet*. 
Curling, a well known game on the ice. 
Curmurring, murmuring ; a slight rumbling noise. 
Curpin, the crupper. 
Cushat, the dove, or wood-pigeon. 
Cutty, short ; a spoon broken in the middle. 
Cutty-stool, the stool of repentance. 

D. 
DADDIE, a father. 
Baffin, merriment; foolishness. 
Daft, merry, giddy j foolish. 
Daimen, rare, now and then ; daimenicker, an ear of 

corn now and then. 
Dainty, pleasant, good humored, agreeable. 
Daise, daez, to stupify. 
Dales, plains, valleys. 
DarMins, darkling. 
Daud, to thrash, to abuse. 
Daur, to dare. 
Daurt, dared. 

Daurg, or daurk, a day's labor. 
Davoc, David. 
Dawd, a large piece. 
Dawtit, or dawtet, fondled, caressed 
Dearies, diminutive of dears. 
DearthfiC, dear. 
Deave, to deafen. 

Deil-ma-care ! no matter ; for all that. 
Deleerit, delirious. 
Descrive, to describe, 
Dight, to wipe ; to clean corn from chaff. 
Dight, cleaned from chaff. 
Ding, to worst, to push. 
Dink, neat, tidy, trim. 
Dinna, do not. 

Dirl, a slight tremulous stroke or pain. 
Dizen, or dizz'n, a dozen. 
Doited, stunified, hebetated 
Dolt, stupified, crazed. 
Donsie, unlucky. 
Doot, sorrow ; to sing dool, to lament, to mourn. 



524 GLOSSARY. 

Doos, doves. 

Dorty, saucy, nice. 

Douce, or douse, sober, wise, prudent 

Doucely, soberly, prudently. 

Bought, was or were able 

Doup, backside. 

Doup-skelper, one that strikes the tail. 

Dour and din, sullen and sallow. 

Doure, stout, durable ; sullen, stubborn. 

Dow, am or are able, can. 

Dowff, pithless, wanting force. 

Dowie, worn with grief, fatigue, &c, half asleep. 

Downa, am or are not able, cannot 

Doylt, stupid. 

DozenH. stupified, Impotent. 

Drap, a drop ; to drop. 

Draigle, to soil by trailing, to draggle among wet, i 

Drapping, dropping. 

Draunting, drawling; of a slow enunciation. 

Dreep, to ooze, to drop. 

Dreigh, tedious, long about it 

Dribble, drizzling; slaver. 

Drift, a drove. 

Droddum, the breech. 

Drone, part of a bagpipe. 

Droop-rumpVt, that drops at the crupper 

Droukit, wet. 

Drounting, drawling. 

Drouth, thirst, drought 

Drucken, drunken. 

Drumly, muddy. 

Drummock, meal and water mixed in a raw state 

Drunt, pet, sour humor. 

Dub, a small pond. 

Duds, rags, clothes. 

Duddie, ragged. 

Dung, worsted ; pushed, driven. 

Dunted, beaten, boxed. 

Dush, to push as a ram, &c. 

Dusht, pushed by a ram, ox, Ac 

E 

E'E, the eye 
Een, the eyes. 
EPenin, evening 



GLOSSARY. 525 



fcric, frighted, dreading spirit*. 
Eild, old age. 
Elbuck. the elbow. 
Eldritch, ghastly, frightful. 
EUer, an elder, or church officer. 
En\ end. 

Enbrugh, Edinburgh. 
Eneugh, enough. 
Especial, especially. 
Ettle, to try, to attempt. 
Eydent, diligent. 

F 

FA\ fall ; lot ; to fall. 

Fa's, does fall ; water-falls. 

Faddom't, fathomed. 

Foe, a foe. 

Faem, foam. 

Faiket, unknown. 

Fairin, a fairing; a present. 

Fallow, fellow. 

Fand, did find. 

Farl, a cake of oaten bread, &c. 

Fash, trouble, care ; to trouble ; to care for 

Fasht, troubled. 

Fasteren e'en, Fasten's Even. 

Fauld, a fold ; to fold. 

Faulding, folding. 

Faut, fault. 

Faute, want, lack. 

Fawsont, decent, seemly 

Feat, a field ; smooth. 

Fearfu 1 , frightful. 

Feaft, frighted. 

Feat, neat, spruce. 

Fecht, to fight. 

Fechtin, fighting. 

Feck, many, plenty. 

Fecket, an under waistcoat with sleeves. 

Feckfu 1 , large, brawny, stout. 

Feckless, puny, weak, silly. 

Feckly, weakly. 

Feg, a fig. 

Feide, fetid, enmity. 

Feirrie, stout, vigorous, healthy. 



626 6L08SART. 

Fell, keen, biting; the flesh immediately under the 
skin ; a held pretty level, on the side or top of a hilL 

Fen, successful struggle ; tight 

Fend, to live comfortably. 

Ferlie, or ferley, to wonder; a wonder; a term of con- 
tempt. 

Fetch, to pull by fits. 

FetchH, pulled intermittently. 

Fidge, to fidget. 

Fiel, so A, smooth 

FUnt, fiend, a petty oath. 

Fier, sound, healthy ; a brother ; a friend. 

Fissle, to make a rustling noise ; to fidget ; a bustle. 

Fit, a foot. 

Fittie-lan*, the nearer horse of the hindmost pair in Um 
plough. 

Fizz, to make a hissing noise like fermentation. 

Flainen, flannel. 

Fleech, to supplicate in a flattering manner. 

FleecK>d, supplicated. 

FUechin, supplicating. 

Fleesh, a fleece. 

Fleg, a kick, a random 

Flether, to decoy by fair word*. 

Fletherin, flattering. 

Fley, to scare, to frighten. 

Flichter, to flutter, as young nestlings when their dam 
approaches. 

Flinders, shreds, broken pieces, splinters. 

Flinging-tree, a piece of timber hung by way of par- 
tition between two horses in a stable ; a flail. 

Flisk, to fret at the yoke. Fliskit, fretted. 

Flitter, to vibrate like the wings of small birds. 

Flittering, fluttering, vibrating. 

Flunkie, a servant in livery 

Fodgel, squat and plump. 

Foord, a ford. 

Forbears, forefathers. 

Forbye, besides. 

Forfairn, distressed; worn oat, Jaded 

Forfoughten, fatigued. 

Forgather, to meet, to encounter witk. 



Forgie, to forgive. 
Forjeskel, jaded with fatigue. 



Fother, fodder. 



GLOSSARY. 5 

JP»u, full ; drunk. 

Foughten, troubled, harassed. 

Fouth, plenty, enough, or more than enough. 

Fow, a. bushel, &c; also a pitch-fork. 

Frae, from ; off. 

Frammit, strange, estranged from, at enmity with. 

Freath, froth. 

Frien\ friend. 

Fu\ full. 

Fud, the scut, or tail of the hare, cony, &e. 

Fuff, to blow intermittently. 

Fir/fit, did blow. 

Funnie, full of merriment 

Fur, a furrow. 

Furm, a form, bench. 

Fyke, trifling cares; to piddle, to be in a fust about 

trifles. 
Fyle, to soil, to dirty 
FyPt, soiled, dirtied 

G. 

GAB, the mouth ; to speak boldly, or pertly. 

Gaber-lunzie, an old man. 

Gadsman, a ploughboy, the boy that drives the horse* 

in the plough. 
Gat, to go ; gaed, went ; gaen, or garu, gone ; gaun, 

going. 
Gaet, or gate, way, manner ; road. 
Gairs, triangular pieces of cloth sewed on the bottom 

of a gown, &c. 
Gang, to go, to walk. 
Gar, to make, to force to. 
GarH, forced to. 
Garten, a garter. 

Gash, wise, sagacious ; talkative ; to converse 
Gashin, conversing. 
Gaucy, jolly, large. 
Gaud, a plough. 

Gear, riches ; goods of any kind. 
Geek, to toss the head in wantonness or i 
Ged, a pike. 

Gentles, great folks, gentry. 
Genty x elegantly formed, neat 
Geordit, a guinea. 
Oct, a child, a young one. 



528 GLOSSARY. 

Ghaist, a ghost. 

Gie, to give ; gied, gave ; gien f given. 

Giftie, diminutive of gift. 

Giglets, playful girls. 

Gillie, diminutive of gill. 

Gilpey, a half grown, half informed boy or girl, a romp- 
ing lad, a hoiden. 

Gimmer, a ewe from one to two years old. 

Gin, if; against. 

Gipsey, a young girl. 

Giro, to grin, to twist the features in' rage, agony, &* 

Girning, grinning. 

Gizz, a periwig. 

Glaikit, inattentive, foolish. 

Glaive, a sword. 

Gawky, half-witted, foolish, romping. 

Glaizie, glittering; smooth like glass. 

Glaum, to snatch greedily. 

Glaum'd, aimed, snatched. 

Gleck, sharp, ready. 

Gleg, sharp, ready. 

Gleib, glebe. 

Glen, a dale, a deep valley. 

Gley, a squint; to squint ; a-gley, off at a side, wrong 

Glib-gabbet, smooth and ready in speech. 

Glint, to peep. 

Glinted, peeped. 

Glintin, peeping. 

Gloamin, the twilight. 

Glowr, to stare, to look ; a stare, a look 

Glowred, looked, stared. 

Glunsh, a frown, a sour look. 

Goavan, looking round with a strange, inquiring gaze; 
staring stupidly. 

Gowan, the flower of the wild daisy, hawk-weed, See. 

Gowany, daisied, abounding with daisies. 

Gowd, gold. 

Gowff, the game of Golf; to strike as the bat does the 
ball at golf. 

GowJPd, struck. 

Gowk, a cuckoo ; a term of contempt 

Gowl, to howl. 

Grane, or grain, a groan ; to groan. 

Grained and grunted, groaned and granted. 

Graining, groaning. 



GLOSSARY. 5 

frraip, a pronged instrument for cleaning sta'olee. 

firaiih, accoutrements, furniture, dress, gear. 

Grannie, grandmother. 

Grape, to grope. 

Graph, groped. 

Grat, wept, shed tears 

Great, intimate, familiar. 

Gree, to agree ; to bear the gree, to be decidedly victor 

Green, agreed. 

Greet, to shed tears, to weep. 

Greetin, crying, weeping. 

Grippet, catched, seized. 

Groat, to get the whistle of one's groat, to play a losing 

game. 
Gronsome, loathsomely, grim. 
Grozet, a gooseberry. 
Gruniph, a grunt; to grunt. 
Grumphie, a sow. 
Grun\ ground. 
Grunstane, a grindstone 
Qruntle, the phiz; a grunting noise. 
Grunzie, mouth. 

Grushie, thick; of thriving growth. 
Glide, the Supreme Being; good. 
Guid, good. 

Guid-morning, good morrow. 
Guid-e'en, good evening. 
Guidman and guidwif *e,the master and mistress of the 

house ; young guidman, a man newly married. 
Guid-wiliie, liberal ; cordial. 
Guidfather, guid-mother, father-in-law, and mother 

in-law. 
Gully, or gullie, a large knife. 
Gumlie, muddy. 
Gusty, tasteful. 

H. 

HA\ hall. 

Ha'-Bible, the great Bible that lies in the hall. 
Hae, to have. 
Haen, had, the participle. 

Haet,fient haet, a petty oath of negation ; nothing 
Haffet, the temple, the side of the head. 
Hafflins, nearly half, partly, 
2X 34 



530 GLOSSARY. 

Hag, a scar or gulf in mosses, and moors. 

Haggis, a kind of pudding boiled in the stomach of » 

ovv or sheep. 
Hain, to spare, to save. 
Hain'd, spared. 
Hairst, harvest. 
Haith, a petty oath. 

Haivers, nonsense, speaking without thought. 
Hal\ or hald, an abiding place. 
Hale, whole, tight, healthy. 
Haly, holy. 
Hame, home. 
Hallan, a particular part it ion -wall in a cottage, 01 

more properly a seat of turf at the outside. 
Hallowmas, Hallow-eve. the 31st of October. 
Harnely, homely, affable. 
Han', or hann\ hand. 
Haj>, an outer garment, mantle, plaid, &c, to wrap, 

to cover ; to hop. 
Happer, a hopper. 
Happing, hopping. 

Hap step arC loup, hop skip and leap. 
Harkit, hearkened. 
Ham, very coarse linen. 
Hash, a fellow that neither knows how to dres» aot 

act with propriety. 
Hastit, hastened. 
Hand, lo hold. 

Haughs, low lying, rich lands ; valleys. 
Haurl, to drag; to peel. 
Haurlin, peeling. 

Haverel, a half-witted person ; half-witted. 
Havins, good manners, decorum, good sense. 
Hawkie. a cow, properly one with a white face 
Hmph, heaped. 

Healsome, healthful, wholesome. 
Hearse, hoarse. 
Heaft, hear it. 
Heather, heath. 
Hech .' oh ! strange 
Hee hi, promised ; to foretell something that is to be got 

or given; foretold; the thing foretold ; offered. 
Heckle, a board, in which are fixed a number of sharp 

pins, used in dressing hemp, flax, &c. 
Huze, to elevate, to raise 



GLOSSARY. 531 

Helm, the rudder or helm. 

Herd) to tend flocks j one who tends flocks. 

Hernn, a herring. 

Kerry, to plunder; most properly to plunder birds' 

nests. 
Herryment, plundering, devastation. 
Hersel, herself; also a herd of cattle, of any sort. 
Het, tiot. 

Heugh, a crag, a coalpit. 
Hilch, a hobble ; to halt. 
Hilchin, halting. 
Himsel, himself. 
Hiney, honey. 
Hing, to hang. 

Hirple, to walk crazily, to creep. 
Missel, so many cattle aa one person <*<ui ai&nd. 
Histie, dry; chapped ; barren. 
Hitch, a loop, a knot. 
Hizzie, a hussy, a young girl. 
Hoddin, the motion of a sage countryman riding on a 

cart-horse; humble. 
Hog-score, a kind of distance line, in curling, drawn 

across the rink. 
Hog-shouther, a kind of horse play, by justling with 

the shoulder ; to justle. 
Hool, outer skin or case, a nut-shell; a peas-cod. 
Hoolie, slowly, leisurely. 
Hoolie! take leisure, stop. 
Hoord, a hoard ; to hoard. 
Hoordit, hoarded. 
Horn, a spoon made of horn. 
Hornie, one of the many names of the devil. 
Host, or hoast, to cough ; a cough. 
Hostin, coughing. 
Hosts, coughs. 

Hotclrd, turned topsyturvy j blended, mixed. 
Houghmagandie, fornication. 
Honlety an owl. 
Housie, diminutive of house. 
Hove, to heave, to swell. 
Hov^d. heaved, swelled. 
Howdie, a midwife. 
Howe, hollow ; a hollow or uell. 
Howebackit, sunk in the back, spoken of a horse, *« 
Howff, a tippling house ; a house of resort. 



532 filOSSART. 

Howk, to dig. 

Howkit, digged. 

Howkin, digging. 

Hoivlet, an owl. 

Hoy, to urge. 

HoyX urged. 

Hoyse, to pull upward*. 

Hoyte, to amble crazily. 

Hughoc, diminutive of Hugh. 

Hurcheon, a hedgehog. 

Hurdies, the loins ; the crupper. 

Htiskion, a cushion. 

I 
T, in, 

Icker, an ear of corn 
Ier-oe, a great-grandchild. 
Ilk, or j7&a, each, every. 
Ill-willie, ill-natured, malicious, niggardly 
Ingine, genius, ingenuity. 
Ingle, fire ; fire-place 
he, I shall or will. 
Ither, other; one another. 

J 

JAD, jade; also a familiar term among country foils 

for a giddy young girl. 
Jauk, to dally, to trifle. 
Jaukin, trifling, dallying. 

Jaup, a jerk of water; to jerk as agitated water. 
law, coarse raillery ; to pour out; to shut, to jerk aa 

water. 
Jerkinet. a jerkin, or short gown. 
Jillet, a jilt, a giddy girl. 

Jimp, to jump ; slender in the waist ; handsome. 
Jimps, easy stays. 
Jink, to dodge, to turn a corner; a sudden turning; a 

corner. 
Jinker, that turns quickly ; a gay, sprightly girl ; a wag. 
Jinkin, dodging 
Jirk, a jerk. 

Joeleleg, a kind of knife. 
Jouk, to stoop, to bow the head. 
Jow, tojow, a verb which includes both toe swinging 

motion and pealing sound of a large bell 
Jundie. to justle. 



GLOSSARY 533 

K. 
KJiE, a daw. 

Kail, colewort; a kind of broth. 
Kail-runt, the stem of colewort. 
Kain, fowls, &c, paid as rent by •<.. tanner 
Kebbuck, a cheese. 
Keekle, to giggle ; to titter. 
Keek, a peep, to peep. 
Kelpies, a sort of mischievous spirits, said to haunt 

fords and ferries at night, especially in storms. 
Ken, to know ; kend or kenn'd, knew. 
Kennin, a small matter. 
Kenspeekle, well known, easily known. 
Ket, matted, hairy; a fleece of wool 
Kill, to truss up the clothes. 
Kimmer, a young girl, a gossip. 
Kin, kindred ; ktn\ kind, adj. 

King*s-hood, a certain part of the entrails of an ox, to 
Kintra, country. 
Kintra eooser, country stallion. 
Kirn, the harvest supper; a churn. 
Kirsen, to christen, or baptize. 
Kist, a chest ; a shop counter. 
Kitchen, anything that eats with bread; to serve for 

soup, gravy, &c. 
Kith, kindred. 

Kittle, to tickle; ticklish; lively, apt. 
Kittlin, a young cat. 
Kiultle, to cuddle. 
Kiuttlin, cuddling. 

Knaggie, like knags, or points of rocks. 
Knap, to strike smartly, a smart blow 
Knappin-hammer, a hammer for breaking stones. 
Knowe, a small round hillock 
Knurl, a dwarf. 
Kye, cows. 

Kyle, a district in Ayrshire 
Kyte, the belly. 
Kytht, to discover ; to show one's self. 

L. 

LADDIE, diminutive of lad. - 

Laggtn, the angle between the side and bottom «i a 

wooden dish. 
Laigh, low. 



534 GLOSSARY. 

Lairing, wading, and sinking in enow, mud, &c 

Laith, loath. 

Laith/u\ bashful, sheepish. 

Lallans, the Scottish dialect of the English language 

La tub if., diminutive of lamb. 

Lampit, a kind of shell-fish, a limpit. 

ljin\ land ; estate. 

Isine. lone ; my lane thy lane, &c, myself alone, Jtc. 

Lanely. lonely. 

Lang, long ; to think lang, to long, to weary. 

Lap. did leap. 

Lave, the rest, the remainder, the others. 

Laveroc/c. the lark. 

Lawin, shot, reckoning, bill. 

Latvian, lowland. 

Lea'e, to leave. 

Leal, loyal, true, faithful. 

Lea-rig, grassy ridge. 

Lear, (pronounce lare,) learning. 

Lee-lang, live -long. 

Leesomc, pleasant. 

Leeze-me, a phrase of congratulatory endearment; I am 

happy in thee, or proud of thee. 
leister, a three-pronged dart for striking fish. 
Leugh, did laugh. 
lAi.uk, a look ; to look. 
Libbet, gelded. 
Lift, the sky. 

Lightly, sneeringly; to sneer at 
Lilt, a ballad ; a tune ; to sing. 
Limmer, a kept mistress, a strumpet 
Limpet, limped, hobbled. 
Link, to trip along. 
Linkin, tripping. 
Linn, a water-fall ; a precipice. 
Lint, flax ; lint P the bell, flax in flower 
Lintwhite, a linnet. 

Loan, or loanin, the place of milk'Ug. 
Loqf, the palm of the hand. 
Loot, did let. 
Looves, plural of loof. 

Loun, a fellow, a ragamuffin ; a woman of easy virtue. 
Lo-up, jump, leap. 
Lome, a flame. 
LvDinn, flaming. 



GLOSSARY. 535 

Lowrie, abbreviation of Lawrence. 

Lowse, to loose. 

Lows'd, loosed. 

Lug, the ear ; a handle. 

Lugget, having a handle. 

Luggie, a small wooden dish with a handle. 

Lum, the chimney. 

Lunch, a large piece of cheese, flesh, &e* 

Lunt, a column of smoke ; to smoke. 

Luntin, smooking. 

Lyart, of a mixed color, gray 

M 

MAE, more. 

Mair, more. 

Maist, most, almost 

Maistly, mostly. 

Mak, to make. 

Makin, making. 

Mailen, a farm. 

Mallit, Molly. 

Mang, among. 

Manse, the parsonage house, where the minister lire*. 

Manteele, a mantle. 

Mark, marks, (This and several other nouns which i* 

English require an s, to form the plural, are in Scrxr*. 

like the words sheep, deer, the same in both numbers.) 
Marled, vanegatsd ; spotted. 
Mar's year, the year 1715. 
Mashlum, meslin, mixed corn. 
Mask, to mash, as malt, &c. 
Maskin-pat, a tea-pot. 

Maud, maad, a plaid worn by shepherds, &e 
Maukin, a hare. 
Maun, must. 
Mavis, the thrush. 
Maw, to mow. 
Mawin, mowing. 
Meere, a mare. 
Meikle, meickle, much. 
Melancholious, mournful. 
Melder, corn, or grain of any kmd, sent to the mill te 

be ground. 
Mell, to meddle. Also a mailer for poundine barie* 

n a stone trough. t~«*«u«« u«»>i 



53 G GLOSSARY 

Melvie, to soil w.th meal. 

Men\ to mend. 

Mense, good manners, decorum. 

Menseless, ill-bred, rude, impudent 

Messin, a small dog. 

Midden, a dunghill. 

Midden-hole, a gutter at the bottom of a dunghilL 

Mini, prim, affectedly meek. 

Min\ mind; resemblance. 

MindH, mind it ; resolved, intending. 

Minnie, mother, dam. 

Mirk, mirkest, dark, darkest. 

Misca\ to abuse, to call names. 

Misca'd, abused. 

Mislear'd, mischievous, unmannerly 

Misteuk, mistook. 

Mither, a mother. 

Mixtie-maxtie, confusedly mixed. 

Moistify, to mo:sten. 

Mony, or tnonie, many. 

Moots, dusi, earth, the earth of the grave. %, we f 

the moots ; to lay in the dust 
Moop, to nibble as a sheep 
Moorlan 1 , of or belonging to moors. 
Morn, the next day, to-morrow 
Mou, the mouth. 
Moiidiwort, a mole 
Mousie, diminutive of mouse. 
Muckle, or mickle, great, big, much 
Musie, diminutive of muse. 
Muslin-kail, broth, composed simply of water 

barley, and greens 
Mutehkin, an English pint 
Mysel, myself. 

N 
NA, no, not, nor. 
Nae, no, not any. 
Naelhine, or naithing, no 
Naig, a horse. 
Nane, none. 

Nappy, ale ; to be tipsy. 
Negfeckit, neglected. 
Pfeuk, a nook. 
Niest, next 



GLOSSARY. 537 

^uwe, the fist 

NievtfU\ handful! 

Niffer, an exchange ; to excnanfe, to carter. 

Niger, a negro. 

Nine-taiTd-cai, a hangman's whip. 

Nit, a nut. 

Norland, of or belonging to the north. 

VoticX noticed. 

Nowte, black cattle. • 

O 

&, of. 

Ochdi, name of mountains. 

O haith, O faith ! an oath. 

Ony, or onte, any. 

Or, is often used for ere, before. 

Ora, or orra, supernumerary, that can r« spared 

O'*, of it. ^ 

9urte, shivering ; drooping. 

Oursel, or oursels, ourselves. 

(hitlers, cattle not housed. 

Ower, over ; too. 

Ower-hip, a way of fetching a blow with the harjnei 
over the arm. 

P. 

PACK, intimate, familiar; twelve stone of woe*. 

Pamch, paunch. 

Paitrick, a partridge. 

Pang, to cram. 

Parle, speech. 

Parntch, oatmeal pudamg, a well known Scotch c sb 

Pat. did put ; a pot. 

Pattle, or pettle, a plough-staff. 

Paughty, proud, haughty. 

Pauley, or patckie, cunning, sly. 

Paift, paid; beat. 

Pech, to fetch the breath short, as ia an awhma 

Pechan, the crop, the stomach. 

Peelin, peeling, the rind of fruit. 

Pet, a domesticated sheep, &c. 

Pettle. to cherish ; a plough-staff. 

Philibegs , short petucoats worn by the Hirhlandmea 

Phratse, fair speeches, flattery; to flatter 

Phraisin, flattery. 

P&™h, Highland war music adapted to the Ugr, .pa 



538 GLOSSARY. 

PiekU, a small quantity. 

Pine, pain, uneasiness. 

Pit, to put. 

Placad, a public proclamation. 

Piack. an old Scotch coin, the third part of a Scoteb 

penny, twelve of which make an Eng'ish penny. 
Plackless, pennyless, without money. 
Plane, diminutive of plate. 
Plew, or pleugh, a plough. 
Pliskie, a trick. 
Poind, to seize cattle or good* for rent, at the laws w 

Scotland allow 
Poortithy poverty 
Pou, to pull. 
Pouk, to pluck. 
Poussiz, a hare, or cat 
Pout, a poult, a chick. 
PouH, did pull. 
Poivt/ury, like powder. 
Pow, the head, the skull. 
Poionie, a little horse. 
n owther, or pouther, powder. 
Preen, a pin. 
Prtnt, to print ; print 
Prte. to taste. 
Prie>d, tasted. 
Prief, proof. 

Prig; to cheapen; to dispute. 
Priggin, cheapening. 
Prunsie, demure, precise. 
Propone, to lay down, to propose. 
Provosts, provosts. 
Pudrtock-stool, a mushroom, fungus 
Pund, pound ; pounds. 
Pyle, — a pyle ©' caff, a single grain of chaff 

Q 
QUAT, to quit. 
Quak, to quake. 
Quty, a cow from one to two years old. 

R. 

RAGWEED, the herb ragwort 
Kaible, to rattle nonsense. 
Hair, to roar. 



0L08SART. 039 

Rmizt, jo madden, to inflame. 

Ram-feezed, fatigued ; overspread. 

Ram~<uim, thoughtless, forward. 

Raploeh, (properly) a coarse cloth; butustd mt mn ma 

noun for coarse. 
Rardy, excellently, very we.2. 
Rash, a rush , rash-bust, a bush of rushes. 
Ratton, a rat 

Raucle, rash; siout; fearless. 
Raught, reached. 
Raw, a row. 
Ra* *c «tre*rji 
Ream, cream; to cream. 
Reaming, brimfull, frothinf 
Reave, rove. 
Reck, to heed. 
Rede, counsel ; to counsel. 

Red-wat-shod, walking in blood over the shoe-tops 
Red-wud, stark mad. 
Ree, half-drunk, fuddled. 
Reek, smoke. 
Reekin, smoking. 
Reehit, smoked ; smoky. 
Remead, remedy. 
Requite, requited. 
Rest, to stand restive. 
Reslitj stood restive; stunted; withered. 
Restricked, restricted. 
Rew, to repent, to compassionate. 
Rief reef, plenty. 
Riefratidw, sturdy beggars. 
Rig, a ridge. 
Rigwiddu, rigvwodie, the rope or chain that cosset 

the saddle of a horse to support the spokes of a cart' 

spare, withered, sapless. 
Rin, to run, to melt ; rinnin, running. 
Rink, the course of the stones ; a term in curling on ico, 
Rip, \ handful I of un threshed corn. 
Rtskit, made a noise like the tearing of roots. 
Rockin, spinning on the rock or distaff. 
Rood, stands likewise for the plural nods. 
Roon a shred, a border or selvage. 
Roose, to praise, to commend. 
Roosty, rusty. 
Roun>, round, in the circle of neighborhood. 



540 GLOSSARY 

R rupet, hoarse, as with a cold. 

Riuthie, plentiful. 

Row, to roll, to wrap. 

Row't, rolled, wrapped. 

Rowte, to low, to bellow 

Rowth, or routh, plenty. 

Rowtin, lowing. 

Rozet, rosin. 

Rung, a cudgel. 

Runkled, wrinkled. 

Runt, the stern of colewort or cabbage. 

Ruth, a woman's name ; the book to ca~*ca 

Ryke, to reach. 

8 
SAE, so. 
Saft, soft. 

Sair, to serve ; a sore. 
Sairly, or sairlit, sorely. 
SairH, served. 
Sark, a shirt; a shift. 
Sarkit, provided in shirts. 
Saugh, the willow. 
Saul soul. 
Saumont, salmon. 
Saunt, a saint. 
Sunt, salt, adj. salt 
Saw, to saw. 
Sawin, sowing. 
Sax, six. 

Scaith, to damage, to injure ; injury. 
Scar, a cliff. 
Scaud, to scald. 
Scauld, to scold. 
Scaur, apt to be scared 
Scawl, a scold ; a term/gant 
Scon, a cake of bread. 
Sconner, a loathing; to loathe. 
Scraich, to scream as a hen, partridge, <ko. 
Screed, to tear ; a rent. 
Scrieve, to glide swiftly along. 
Scrievin, gleesomely ; swiftly. 
Sciimp, to scant 
Scrimpet, did scant; scanty. 
Sce'd, did see. 
Seizin, seizing. 



LOSS ART. 641 

Set, »elf ; « toiy'f *W, one's self alone. 

SelPt, did sell. 

Sen', to send. 

Sen't, 1, tc, «ent, or did send it; send it 

Servan\ servant. 

Settlin, settling ; to get a Httlin, to be frighted law 
quietness. 

Sets, sets oft', goes away. 

Shackled, distorted; shapeless. 

Shaird, a shred, a shard. 

Shangan, a stick cleft at one end for putting the tail 
of a dog, &c. into, by way of mischief, or to fr:gh» 
en him away. 

Shaver, a humorous wag ; a barber. 

Shaw, to show ; a small wood in a hollow. 

Sheen, bright, shin int. 

Sheep-shank ; to think on*'i ttlf neu sluef-thank, to be 
conceited. 

Sherra-moor, sheriff-moor, the famous battle fought br- 
ibe rebellion, A. D. 1715. 

Shtugh, a ditch, a trench, a sluice. 

ShieJ, a shed. 

Skill, shrill. 

Shog, a shook ; a push off at one side. 

Shool. a shovel. 

Shoon. shoes. 

Shore,\o offer, to threaten. 

Shor'd, offered. 

Shouther, the shoulder. 

Shure, did shear, shore. 

Sic, such. 

Sicker, sure, steady. 

Siddins, sidelong, slanting. 

Siller, silver; money. 

Simmer, summer. 

Sin, a son. 

Sin', since. 

Skaith, see seaith, 

Skellum, a worthless fellow. 

Skelp, to strike, to slap; to walk with a smart tnp- 
ping step ; a smart stroke. 

ikelpu-ltmrner, a reproachful tsrm in female seoWicg 

Skelpin, stepping, walking. 

Skiegh,oT Skeigh p'nad, nice, highmettled 

Gkinllii, a small portion. 



642 GLOSSARY. 

Ckirl, to shriek, to cry shrilly. 

Skirling, shrieking, crying. 

SkirPt, shrieked. 

Sklent, slant; 10 run aslant, to deviate from truth. 

Sklented, ran, or hit, in an oblique direction 

Skouth, fieedcm to converse without restraint ; rang? 

scope. 
Skrieg h, a scream ; to scream. 
Skyrin, shining , making a great show 
Skytt, force, very forcible motion. 
Sloe, a sloe. 
Slade, did slied. 

Slap, a gate ; a breach in a fence. 
Slaver, saliva ; to emit saliva. 
Slaw, slow. 
Slee, sly ; sletst, sliest 
Sleekit, sleek ; sly. 
Slvidery, slippery. 

Slype, to fall over, as a wet furrow from the plough 
Slypet, fell. 
Sma\ small. 

Smeddutn, dust, powder ; mettle, seoee. 
Smiddy, a smithy. 
Smoor, to smother. 
Swwor'd, smothered. 
Smoutie, smutty, obscene, ugly. 
SmytrU, a numerous collection of small individual*. 
Snapper, to stumble, a stumble. 
Sna.sk, abuse, Billingsgate. 
Snaw, snow ; to snow. 
Snaw-broo, melted snow. 
Snawie, snowy. 

Sneek, snick, the latch of a door. 
Sned, to lop, to cut off. 
Sneeshin, snuff. 
Sneeshin-mill, a snuff-box. 
SnrM, bitter, biting. 

Snick-drawing, tnck-contriving, crafty. 
Snirtle, to laugh restrainedly. 
Snood, a ribbon for binding the hair. 
Snool, one whose spirit is broken with opp.*e*«rv« 

slpvery ; to submit tamely, to sneak. 
Snoove, to go smoothly and constantly, to sneak 
Snowk, to scent or snuff as a dog. <fce. 
Snowkit, scented, snuffed. 



GLOSS AR 1. 543 

S+nsie, having sweet engaging looks j lucky, Jolly. 

Scom, to swim 

Sooth, truth, a pretty oath. 

Sough, a heavy sigh, a sound dying on the ear 

Souple, flexible; swiA. 

Souter, a shoemaker. 

Sowens. a dish made of oatmeal; the seed* or oatmM) 

soaied, &c, flummery. 
Sowp, a spoonfull, a small quantity of any thing liqanL 
Sowth, to try over a tune with a low whistle. 
Sowther, solder; to solder, to cement 
Spae, to prophesy, to divine. 
Spaul, & limb. 

Spairge, to dash, to soil, as with mire. 
Spaviet, having the spavin. 
Spean, spa ne, to wean. 

Speay or spate, a sweeping torrent, after rain or taaw. 
Sperl, to climb. 
Spence, the country parlor. 
Spier, to ask, to inquire. 
SpierH, inquired. 
Splatter, a splutter, to splutter. 
Spleughan, a tobacco-pouch. 
Splore, a frolic ; a noise, riot 
Spraeicle, sprachle, to clamber. 
SptattU, to scramble. / 

Spreckled, spotted, speckled. 
Spring, a quick air in music ; a Scottish reel. 
Sprit, a tough-rooted plant, something like rushes. 
Sprutie, fall of spirit. 
Spunk, fire, mettle ; wit 

Spunkie, mettlesome, fiery; will-o'-unsp, or ignisfatuw. 
Spurtle, a stick used in making oatmeal Dudding « 

porridge. 
Sqtiad, a crew, a party. 

Squatter, to flutter in water, as a wild duck, tut. 
Squaltle, to sprawl. 

Sqtieel, a scream, a screech ; to scream* 
Stacker, to stagger. 
Stack, a rick of corn. hay. tee. 
Staggie, the diminutive of stag. 
Stalwart, strong, stout. 
Stant, to stand ; »tan% did stand. 
Stane, a stone. 
Stang, bo acute pain j a twinge ; to sf A* 



*44 G LOSS Aft ¥. 

Stank, did stink ; a pool of standing water. 

Stap, stop. 

iiai/c, stout 

Startle, to run as cattle stun; by the gad-fly. 

SHaumrtl, a blockhead ; half-witted. 

State, did steal : to surfeit. 

Such, to cram the belly. 

Stechin, cramming. 

Steele, to shut ; a stitch. 

Steer, to molest ; to stir. 

Steeve, firm, compacted. 

Stell, a still. 

Sun, to rear as a horse 

Sten't, reared. 

Stents, tribute ; dues of any kind. 

Stey, steep ; steyest, steepest. 

Stibble, stumble; ttibble-rig, the reaper in harvest who 
takes the lead. 

Stick an' stow, totally, altogether. 

Stile, a crutch ; to halt, to limp. 

Stimpart, the eighth part of a Winchester bushel 

Stirk, a cow or bullock a year old. 

Stock, a plant or root of colewort, cabbage, tec. 

Stoekin, a stocking; throwing the stocktn, when the 
bride and bridegroom are put into bed, and the candle 
out, the former throws a stocking at random amonp 
the company, and tffe person whom it strikes is the 
next that will be married. 

Stoiter, to stagger, to stammer. 

Stooked, made up in shocks, as com. 

Stoor, sounding hollow, strong, and hoarse. 

Stot, an ox. 

Stoup, or stoxep, a kind of jug or dish with a handle. 

Stoure, dust, more particularly dust in motion. 

Stoiclins, by stealth. 

Stowm, stolen. 

Stoyte, to stumble. 

Struck, did strike. 

Strae, straw ; to die a fair strae death, to die m bed. 

Straik, did strike. 

Straikit, stroked. 

Strappan, tall and handsome. 

Straught, straight, to straighten. 

Streek, stretched, tight; to stretch. 

Striddle, to straddle. 



•LOOS ART. 645 

Stman, to spout, to pin 

Studdit, an anvil. 

Stumpit, diminutive of stump. 

Strunt, spirituous liquor of any kind , to walk sturdily ; 

huff, suilenness. 
Stuff, corn or pulse of any kind. 
Start, trouble ; to molest 
Sturtin, frighted. 
Sucker, sugar. 
Sud, should. 

Sugh, the continued rushing noise of wind or water. 
Sutkron, southern; anoldnanu for the English aauon 
Swaird, sward. 
SuaiTd, swelled. 
Swank, stately, jolly. 
Swank-it, or swanker, a tight strapping young feUow 

or girl. 
Swap, an exchange ; to barter. 
Swarf, to swoon ; a swoon. 
Swat, did sweat. 
Swatch, a sample. 
Swats, drink ; good ale. 
Sweaten, sweating. 

Sweer, lazy, averse ; dsad-tvtm, extremely averse: M 
Swoor, swore, did swear. 
Swinge, to beat ; to whip. 
Swirl, a curve; an eddying blast, or pool; a knot m 

wood. 
Swirlie, knaggie, full of knots, 
Swith, get away. 
Swither, to hesitate in choice ; an irresolute wavering 

in choice. 
Syne, since, ago ; then. 

T 

TICKETS, a kind of nails for driving into the 

of shoes. 
Tat, a toe ; thru-tae'd, having three prongs. 
Tairge, a target. 
Tak, to take ; toWn, taking. 
Tamtallan, the name of a mountain. 
Tangle, a sea-weed. 
Tap, the top. 

Tapetless, heedless, foolish. 
Tarrow, to murmur at one's allowance 
35 



546 GLOSSARY. 

TarroteU, murmured. 

Tarry-breeks, a sailor. 

Tauldy or tald x told. 

Taupie, a foolish, thoughtless young person. 

Tauttd, or tautie, matted together; spoken of hair 01 
wool. 

Tawit, that allows itself peaceably to be handled 
spoken of a horse, cow, &c. 

Ttat, a small auantity. 

Teen, to provoke; provocation. 

Tedding, spreading after the mower 

Tm-hour's bite, a slight feed for the horses while in the 
yoke, in the forenoon. 

Tent, a field-pulpit; heed, caution; to take heed; tc 
tend or herd cattle. 

Tentie, heedful, caution. 

Tentless, heedless. 

Teugh, tough. 

Thaek, thatch ; ihack mti> rape, clothing, necessaries. 

Thae, these. 

Thairms, small guts; iddle-stringa. 

Thankit, thanked. 

Theekii, thatched. 

Thegither, together. 

Themsel, themselves. 

Thick, intimate, familiar. 

Thieveless, cold, dry, spited; spoken of a person's de- 
meanor. 

Thir, these. 

Thirl, to thrill. 

Thirled, thrilled, vibrated. 

Thole, to suffer, to endure. 

Thowe, a thaw ; to thaw. 

Thowless, slack, lazy. 

Thrang i throng; a crowd. 

Thrappte, throat, windpipe. 

Throve, twenty-four sheaves or two shocks of corn 
a considerable number. 

Thrate, to sprain, to twist ; to contradict. 

Thrawin, twisting, k.c. 

Thrown, sprained, twisted, contradicted. 

Threap, to maintain by dint of assertion, 

Threshxn, thrashing. 

r^rrtem, thirteen. 

ntittk, thistle. 



GLOSSARY. 547 

Through, to go on with ; to make out. 

Throuther, pell-mell, confusedly. 

Thud, to make a loud intermittent noise 

Thumjrity thumped. 

Thysel, thyself. 

TiWt, to it. 

Timmer, timber. 

Tine, to lose ; tint, lost 

Tinkler, a tinker. 

Tint the gate, lost the way. 

Tip, a ram. 

Tippenee, twopence. 

Tin, to make a slight noise ; to uncover. 

Tirlin, uncovering. 

Tither, the other. 

Tittle, to whisper. 

Tittlin, whispering. 

Tocher, marriage portion. 

Tod. a fox. 

Toddle, to totter, like the walk of a child. 

Toddtin, tottering. 

Toom, empty, to empty. 

Toop, a ram. 

Toun, a hamlet ; a farm-house 

Tout, the blast of a horn or trumpet j to blow a norn, 

&c. 
Tow, a rope. 

Toiomond, a twelvemonth. 
Towzie, rough, shaggy. 

Toy, a very old fashion of female head-drese. 
Toyu. to totter like old age. 

Transmugrify'd, transmigrated, metamorphosed. 
Trashtrie, trash. 
Trews, trowsers. 
Trklci'e, full of tricks. 
Trig, spruce, neat. 
Trimly, excellently. 
Trow, to believe. 
Trowth, truth, a petty oath. 
Trystc, an appointment ; a fair. 

Trysted, appointed; to trystt, to make an appointment. 
Try't, tried. 
Tug, raw hide, of which in old times plough-trac« 

were frequently made. 
TuUie, a quarrel ; to quarrel, to fight 



548 GLOSSARY. 

Twa, two. 

Twa-three, a few. 

Twad, it would. 

Twal, twelve; twal-pmnie worth, a small quantity, s 

penny-worth. 
N. B. One penny English is 12d Scotsh. 
Twin, to part. 
Tyke, a dog. 

UNCO, strange, uncouth ; very great, prodigious 

Uneos, news. 

Unkentfd, unknown. 

Unsicker, unsure, unsteady. 

Unskaith'd, undamaged, unhurt 

Unweeting, unwittingly, unknowingly. 

Upo\ upon. 

Urchin, a hedge-hog. 

VAP'RIN, vaporing. 

Vera, very. 

Virl, a ring round a column, Ac 

Vittle. corn of all kinds, food. 

W. 

WA\ wall; wa't, walls. 

Wabster, a weaver. 

Wad, would ; to bet; a bet, a pledge. 

Wadna, would not. 

Wae, wo ; sorrowful. 

Waefu\ woful, sorrowful, wailing. 

Waesucks ! or waes-me! alas ! O the pity. 

Waft, the cross thread that goes from the shuttle through 
the web ; woof. 

Wair, to lay out, to expend. 

Wale, choice ; to choose. 

Ward, chose, chosen. 

Walk, ample, large, jolly; also aninterjeotion of dis- 
tress. 

Wame, the belly. 

Wamefu 1 , a belly-full. 

Wanchancie, unlucky. 

Wanrestfu\ restless. 

Wark, work. 

Wark-lume. a tool to work with. 

Warl, or warkt, world. 



GLOSSARY. 549 

WarUxk, a wizard 

Warly, worldly, eager on amassing wealth 

Warran, a warrant j to warrant. 

Worst, worst. 

WarstPd, or tvarsPd, WTe»tled. 

Wastrie, prodigality. 

Wat, wet ; / wat, I wot, I know. 

Water-brose, brose made of meal and water limply 
without the addition of milk, butter, fcc. 

Wattle, a twig ; a wand. 

Wauble, to swing, to reel. 

Waught, a draught. 

Waulcit, thickened as fullers do cloth. 

Waukrife, not apt to sleep. 

Waur. worse ; to worst 

Waurt, worsteds 

Wean, or weanie, a child. 

Wearu, or weary ; many m weary body, many a dif- 
ferent person. 

Weason, weasand. 

Weaving the Stocking. See Stocking. 

Wee, little ; wee things, little ones ; wee bit, a small 
matter. 

Weel, well ; weel/art, welfare. 

Weet, rain, wetness. 

Weird, fate. 

We'se, we shall. 

Wha, who. 

Whaizle, to wheeze. 

Whalpit, whelped. 

Whang, a leathern string; a piece of cheese, bread, 
&c, to give the strappado. 

Whare, where ; where'er, wherever. 

Wheep, to fly nimbly, to jerk \ penny-ivhotp, small beet. 

Whose, whose. 

Whatreek, nevertheless. 

fVhid, the motion of a hare, running but net frig hts* ; 
a lie. 

Whidden, running as a hire or tony. 

Whigmeleerits, whims, fancies, crotchets. 

Whingin, crying, complaining, fretting. 

WhirligigumS) useless ornaments, trifling appendages. 

rVhissU, a whistle ; to whistle. 

Whisht, silence ; Is hold one't whitht, to bs silent. 

Whitk, to sweep, to lash. 



550 GLOSSARY. 

Whiakit, lashed. 

WhMtr, a hearty draught of liquor. 
Whim-ntane, a whin-stone. 
WhyUx, whiles, sometimes. 
*Ft\ with. 

WUkt irighu powerful, strong ; inventive; of a supe- 
rior genius. 
Wick, to strike a stone in an oblique direction ; & term 

in curling. 
Wicker, willow (the smaller sort.) 
Wiel, a small whirlpool. 

Wifie, * diminutive or endearing term for wife. 
Wilyart, bashful and reserved; avoiding society or 

appearing awkward in it ; wild, strange, timid. 
Wimple, to meander. 
Wimpl't, meandered. 
Wimplin, waving, meandering 
Win, to win, to winnow. 
Win% winded as a bottom of vara. 
\Vin\ wind; win's, winds. 
Winna, will not. 
Winnock, a window. 
Winsome, hearty, vaunted, gay. 
WinUe, a staggering motion ; to stagger, to reel 
Winze, an oath. 
Wits, to wish. 
Witfwutten, without. 
Wizen' i, hide-bound, dried, shrunk. 
Wonner,*. wonder; a contemptuous appellation. 
Wons, dwells. 
Woo', wool. 

Woo, to court, to mak* love to. 
W odic, a rope, more properly one made of withes or 

willows. 
Wooer -bob, the garti r knotted below the knee with a 

couple of loops. 
Wordy, worthy. 
Worset, worsted. 

Wow, an exclamation of pleasure or wonder. 
Wrack, to teaze, to vex. 
Wraith, a spirit, or ghost ; an apparition exactly like 

a living person, whose appearance is said to fore* 

bode the person's approaching death. 
Wrang, wrong ; to wrong. 
Wreeth, a drifted heap of snow. 



GLOSS ART 551 

Wud-mad, distracted. 
YVumble, a wimble. 
Wyle, to beguile. 
Wyliecoat, a flannel vert. 
fVyte, blame ; to blame. 

Y. 

YAD, an old mare ; a worn-oat hone. 

Ye; this pronoun is frequently used for thou. 

Yearns, longs much. 

Yearlings, born in the same year, coevals. 

Year is used both for singular and plural, yean. 

Yearn, earn. Rn eagle, an ospray. 

Yell, barren, that gives no milk, 

Yerk, to lash, to jerk. 

Yerkit, jerked, lashed. 

Yestreen, yesternight. 

Yeit, a gate, such as is usually at the entrance jsSo a 

farm-yard or field. 
Yill, ale. 
Yird, earth. 
Yokin, yoking ; a boot 
Yont, beyond. 
Yoursel, yourself. 
Yotoe, a ewe. 

Yowie, diminutive of yowe, 
Yuk, Christmas. 



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